tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56936290758386538532024-03-06T04:36:32.500+01:00BecinbrusselsBecinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-66428213597285746102014-01-30T18:52:00.000+01:002014-01-30T18:58:23.390+01:00Théâtre Royal de Toone <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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First ensure you’ve had a couple of kwak beers in their proper
glass, then head upstairs to Toone’s theatre with its puppets dangling from the
eaves, take your place on the bench – and be prepared to not understand very
much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fear not though, this is normal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is Bruxellois.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time it is an adaptation of Hamlet, transported to the
backstreets and canal of Brussels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is a bit of hanky panky between King and Queen, a regal ghost
burning his bottom on the fires of purgatory, and someone has caught the
“English” flu.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting near the front you
can appreciate the arms behind the artifice: 7 young puppeteers are needed to
perform the show, and the lead puppeteer (Toone VIII) is also ticketmaster, barman
and answerer of baffled-tourist questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“To be or not to be: that is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cwestion…”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ll say this in
English, that way everyone can say they didn’t understand a thing”, says one of
the characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But perhaps this
Bruxellois dialect isn’t so tricky after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There’s a <i>sp<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">uu</span>k</i> in this play, you know, and a <i>snotneus</i>, and a <i>stommeriek </i>(stupid person).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly
performances are in French Bruxellois, but once a week you can try Flemish Bruxellois
(and be even more confused). The dialect survives mostly as a strong accent and
vocabulary: you’re most likely to hear it amongst the older generation and Flemish
speakers.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the interval, you can drink yet more beer amongst retired
30 year old puppets in the tiny museum-cum-bar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile I’m mulling over a line from the
performance:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
“Justice is a snail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
will come in its own time.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Toone reopens on February 1st, after its annual break. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Check online to see what is playing, and reserve places online
or by telephone a couple of days beforehand if you can.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.toone.be/">http://www.toone.be/</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="highlightedsearchterm">Impasse</span>
Sainte-Pétronille, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rue du Marché-aux-Herbes 66, 1000 Brussels</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(down a tiny "snicket" off the pedestrian road by Grand Place). I just thought I'd throw in some Yorkshire dialect there for you!</div>
</div>
Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Rue du Marché aux Herbes 66, 1000 Brussels, Belgium50.847324099999987 4.353432699999984825.325289599999987 -36.955161300000015 76.369358599999984 45.662026699999984tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-19694889292878367512014-01-21T22:27:00.000+01:002014-01-21T22:34:31.517+01:00Western Shop<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I was looking for authentic cowboy
boots; I didn’t expect to find so many of them quite so close to home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then I hadn’t counted on finding a
Western Man in Brussels, either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Fran<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ç</span>ois Chladiuk’s Western Shop
grew out of a life’s passion for the Wild West.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This collector of the “real McCoy” started with antique Winchesters 40
years ago, adding statues and saddles before a chance opportunity led to him
acquiring 150 pieces that had languished in a basement for decades, including vibrant
Indian headdresses, tunics, moccasins and jewellery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He suspected they were old, and placed adverts
in magazines and tried to track down photos of the period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day, while looking at a postcard, he
realised he had a match.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I was shaking,
I ran upstairs and compared it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
there it was!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the few surviving
photographs of the period, he discovered he owned clothing and artefacts that
had belonged to the Little Elk and Little Moon families who had performed in
the Wild West Shows for the Brussels World Fair in 1935.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since then Francois’s whole collection has
been displayed at Belgium’s Royal Museum for Art and History, and pieces have
been loaned to The Buffalo Bill museum in Golden, Colorado. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few pieces are currently on display in that same
Brussels museum. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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22 years ago Fran<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ç</span>ois
started his shop, still with his collection in mind, selling the “real hats,
the real boots and the real shirts.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
brands featured are 120 or 130 years old, including Tony Lama, which last year
celebrated its 100<sup>th</sup> anniversary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This place is about as far removed from a western superstore as you can
imagine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wooden floors, country music in
the background and the inescapable smell of leather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amongst the Stetsons, jewellery and shirts I
ask him what he is most proud of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unsurprisingly it is the inventory of 2500 pairs of cowboy boots,
including the traditional or the colourful, amongst exotic skins such as shark,
lizard, python, hippo or stingray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
keep the shop well-stocked, Francois flies to the States five times a year,
taking in the Denver show in January and September, which has “everything”, and
twice visiting Tulse, Oklohoma, for collectables from the “biggest gun show on
earth”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it’s either the Cody show
or the High Noon show in Phoenix for antiques.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Distances and unloading aside, there is no “work” involved in running
this shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“At 38 I opened, and at 38 I
stopped working!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Every ten or 12 years there is
like a Western fashion wave coming all over the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends say; ‘You must be lucky now, you
must be happy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now you’re making a lot
of money.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s just not true”, he
says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those are the times of cheap
imitations and dreamcatchers, not the “real McCoy”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Is it because my father was
liberated by Americans that I became interested in the Wild West?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps there’s something to that, but after
a childhood of playing Cowboys and Indians and his recent discovery of a Little
Moon descendant in Wounded Knee, Francois’ enthusiasm shows no sign of
waning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has amassed memorabilia
relating to the Wild West shows that took place in Belgium, and to the founder
of those shows, Buffalo Bill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can he
bring himself to sell anything from his treasured collection?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once, he sold a 7ft by 6ft portrait of
Buffalo Bill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That’s enormous”, I
say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took six men to lift it, but
that was not the main reason it had to go: Fran<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ç</span>ois had moved to a house with
lower ceilings, and, as he put it, “I didn’t want Buffalo Bill’s head – down
there!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Every Buffalo Bill and Wild West enthusiast
should pay Brussels’ Western Man a visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I’ll be back for his boots.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohMG4FXDDJv5r-hMcQY5eyO5RzCARzFElw_EbpjLcaeaAdBlBMkRZTLMht2jJjUKQLvqdBG3CCnm7VyHbMzrj4qVJvYxh3HqRPRHN2dif6kbVVQAx1wr9_qok15lnTogGVX2GM4Qg9fWX/s200/015.JPG" height="240" width="320" /> </div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Western Shop</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
79, Boulevard Adolphe Max</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
1000 Brussels</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
+32 (0)2 219 55 17</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.westernshop.be/">www.westernshop.be</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Open Monday to Saturday 9:30 – 18:30; Sundays 13:00 – 17:00</div>
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<br /></div>
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Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com2Boulevard Adolphe Max 79, 1000 Brussels, Belgium50.8536799 4.356167099999993325.331645400000003 -36.952426900000006 76.3757144 45.664761099999993tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-90484869363476040052013-01-22T22:21:00.000+01:002013-01-22T22:21:06.979+01:00Le Petit Forcado<br />
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<br />
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">I have already written about cake. I have sampled muffins, cupcakes and lemon cake galore. All the evidence is on this blog and cannot be denied.</span><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"> But what of the Portuguese pastry? This is the tale of my encounter with Joaquim's Pas</span></span><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">téis de </span></span><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">Belem, in case you missed it the first time round.....</span></span><br />
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">Chaussee
de Charleroi is busy, as usual. Meanwhile, in le Petit Forcado’s kitchen the
oven is busy heating to 445 degrees, ready for its next intake of pastéis de
belém.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I make everything by hand”, says
Joaquim, waving his hands to illustrate his point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He flashes me an impish grin; “Everything
you’ve read about me is true, even my bad temper.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">After
many years of running a restaurant next door, this former political refugee
from Lisbon now just concentrates on his first love, baking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the work is done on the weekend, when
there can be as many as 15 to 20 different choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I can’t do any more that that, otherwise my
wife will give me the red card”, he laughs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of his weekend specialities is “ le mojito”: a fresh-sounding
concoction of mint, natural rum essence and lime; and then there’s a fiddly
sounding one involving 16 sheets of puff pastry, lard, apples, cinnamon and
almonds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recipes do not always work out,
however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One found online was judged to
be “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">immangeable</i>!”; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and then there was the orangey cake which
tasted too much of eggs, and was also summarily rejected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Food allergy sufferers need not look on
grinding their teeth, for Joaquim considers himself a bit of an expert at gluten-free
cakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All his pastries freeze well (one
of his customers regularly stocks up before she returns to Norway, so Britain
should be OK). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His customers are from the whole world,
probably only 1% are Portuguese.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr5vNWlkMM0_bwRxqREr0md3Oyjor2iIJxWA0TzzSAQ1UdhQ4Z9pvPQ2GNQhLPtESb_iHKSS1X-BQZDymbnUD0681znMK779nyqVkAicdHNou6h6qY8B9Q2va-iB0O7ZqanioiPoNomiga/s1600/Becinbrussels+Sep2012+125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr5vNWlkMM0_bwRxqREr0md3Oyjor2iIJxWA0TzzSAQ1UdhQ4Z9pvPQ2GNQhLPtESb_iHKSS1X-BQZDymbnUD0681znMK779nyqVkAicdHNou6h6qY8B9Q2va-iB0O7ZqanioiPoNomiga/s1600/Becinbrussels+Sep2012+125.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">The
famous pastéis de belém are offered in two versions: the more traditional one
with crème fraîche, and the much more common milk version.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From sight you couldn’t tell the difference,
but the crème fraîche version has a creamier lemony flavour while the milk
version is flavoured with cinnamon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nearby <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the lemon puff pastry parcels
lie innocently – invented by Coimbra nuns as a use for leftover egg yolks (the
whites were used on their hair, but to what effect, one wonders?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">“When
everything’s made by hand, sometimes it doesn’t work out”, Joaquim smiles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Technically wrong, perhaps, but still yummy
wonderful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re offered slices of one
such “g</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">â</span><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">teau raté” whose goey
orangey moistness leaves us stammering, stuttering in our praise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We buy up the rest of Joaquim’s “mistake
cake”, and later my Mum confesses that this is her favourite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile landlady, neighbour and housemates
are all asking: where can I get hold of these?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38Rx3zPFtKw4-5HzbU8yAT71s42dlHP-MoL9xOf_bTvZwp4EkgCFC5a_hzr0QhrZAm402fBvlpFnkMe3PSxdfsstjTU5GdoQwwnXEqda5VBSryV0it9QNPMvTRt1_QJpib0gw-zWsf0Ng/s1600/Becinbrussels+Sep2012+126.JPG" height="300" width="400" /> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">Back
to the selection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This weekday
lunch-time, there are around 6 different cakes in the window, and the coffee,
raspberry, chocolate and belém are depleting fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reason?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I only make what I want, when I want and how I want to!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I would advise you to come early, because
when they’re gone, they’re gone, although Joaquim will still be there to
welcome you with his pots of jam and humour, which do not sell out quite so
fast.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">Each
cake costs 1 euro 50.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you don’t know
where to begin, buy one of everything, but don’t miss the mistake cake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">Chaussée
de Charleroi, 190c</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">1060
Saint-Gilles</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">+32
(0)2 539 00 19</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">Open
Tuesday to Saturday 11:30 to 17:00, except public holidays</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">10
minutes’ walk from Louise metro and high-end shops, and 5 minutes from the Ch</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">â</span><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;">telain district around the Trinité square and rue du Bailli,
which is worth a wander with bars aplenty and interesting clothes, decoration
and bookshops.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5vp70koCa8nJexROpsdS7wm26hjSH17bCYnEDh618_WsGBAz_HUwy432CiAxzm1cMFoLVjoDTlAncXRvIQdljT4ubENW7lxokib46SgRTuHjpTKSDr8QXe0t4XxfoDcJ9264AkAmxccxr/s1600/Becinbrussels+Sep2012+127.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5vp70koCa8nJexROpsdS7wm26hjSH17bCYnEDh618_WsGBAz_HUwy432CiAxzm1cMFoLVjoDTlAncXRvIQdljT4ubENW7lxokib46SgRTuHjpTKSDr8QXe0t4XxfoDcJ9264AkAmxccxr/s1600/Becinbrussels+Sep2012+127.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a> </span></div>
Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com2Chaussée de Charleroi 190C, 1060 Saint-Gilles, Belgium50.8248724 4.35459420000006525.302837899999997 -36.953999799999934 76.3469069 45.663188200000064tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-90797872242694573232013-01-19T00:47:00.002+01:002013-01-19T00:58:00.503+01:00Parc Tenbosch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAcg7-GmrW0f3xtS2g0EQTwacR2jHg5a5q0ahux9J6N9TvxlVOyDBtenqCafT_zPwiHGtBTs12Yf3Xr_w6xf6PzHoF1gJYRfyu-ZF2D1qGus2MqYWUKPx8ahrxzqqBwnYFFGX18yRpWhiE/s1600/Becinbrussels+Sep2012+009.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></div>
Last June I announced on Twitter that change was afoot for me. Admittedly I announced this in a rather enigmatic fashion. "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark", I said, and I cannot expect anyone to fathom quite what I meant by this, except that change was to happen! But I like mysteries, and I certainly do not like baring my soul on Twitter - every week someone new apologises publicly for an inappropriate remark. When so many well-known people fall flat on their faces whyohwhy would I, as a not well-known person, choose to take to Twitter et al to publicise to the ethersphere how I am feeling at a time which might be a transition phase or a more lasting change - especially when I have nothing particular to say about it. So, I remained silent. <br />
<br />
I was not intending to be silent for so long, but silence becomes a habit and four months pass swiftly when you are a student again. For a start, you have real work to do. Or rather, in comparison to what I was doing before, I am learning and being challenged and enjoying libraries, lectures, giving speeches and acquiring new skills. No longer am I becoming office-ossified as the ghostly presence delivering the post! Tonight it is the turn of "the most fiendish jigsaw puzzle of a
mind - contorting - inland - waterwaying - freight - Frenchie translation." (Twitter, ahem.) This week were the dreaded interpreting exams. Last week, translation, again. I hardly have time to think about what it was like before.<br />
<br />
So, LADIES and GENTS. The simple explanation for the lack of new bars and restaurants featured on <i>Becinbrussels </i>of late is that I HAVE NO MONEY! Instead, I humbly offer you a bench from my favourite Parc Tenbosch, warmed by the Summer sun. I'm looking wistfully at said bench as I write - outside it is -2 and light snow is falling.<br />
<br />
It is incredible to believe I am nearly halfway through this Masters training, and in less than 6 months will be graduating, barely more experienced than now - yet still ready-ish to become an interpreter-translator. And the blog will be re-born! But for now I have to leave my beloved restaurants and bars to others - to those bloggers with more cash than me..... (<i>Becinbrussels </i>sniffs). Or perhaps... I will write about my experience of learning to become an interpreter.<br />
<br />
<br />Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-55520695391629876022012-09-21T16:10:00.004+02:002012-09-21T16:13:19.620+02:00Volle Gas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgHha7UrHDk_OlT-vTAyO8Eh9cdQITMo5o4xZVjTLQSDr_zJUAV7Q37itgJ6dJiEG7ekuBdR4m_F0U2_f53IkgYHIeja3IuUZTHhS4Vg2Keq5B1FUu4jH8ydpaX2sV0YTPSgAQee6aNtD/s1600/Russia+August+2012+075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgHha7UrHDk_OlT-vTAyO8Eh9cdQITMo5o4xZVjTLQSDr_zJUAV7Q37itgJ6dJiEG7ekuBdR4m_F0U2_f53IkgYHIeja3IuUZTHhS4Vg2Keq5B1FUu4jH8ydpaX2sV0YTPSgAQee6aNtD/s400/Russia+August+2012+075.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
I'm back from holidays, rejoining the blogosphere! What an adventure I've had.<br />
<br />
I hardly know where to start. One of the first things I did upon my return was head out for some Belgian food - after so many days on trains, in hostels, on the road, I was craving a good beer and a good steak. I hadn't been to <i>Volle Gas </i>for ages, but I remembered that they offer a wide selection of Belgian and other filling dishes. My pilates teacher had also taken a large family group here and said the staff had coped well, so I thought further reason for a visit. Volle Gas means something like "à toute vitesse", or "full steam ahead!"<br />
<br />
But what else did I miss about Belgium on my long trip abroad? Well the food on my travels was filling and hearty (as you'd expect in a country that gets bone-chillingly cold in Winter, and wasn't exactly warm in Summer either...). But this is a quick resume of my favourite things drink that I sought out as soon as I returned..... Wasting no time of course:<br />
<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li><b>Orval</b> - No, it didn't take long to seek out my favourite beer. This is the beer that prompts the raising of male eyebrows when they see me drinking it, and (I like to think) a certain respect - well from men of a certain age, anyway. Tends to sell out in supermarkets worryingly often. If you haven't visited the <a href="http://www.orval.be/en/" target="_blank">abbey</a> a trip there is particularly pleasant in the Autumn, when the leaf colours down in the Ardennes are beautiful. </li>
<li><b>Super des Fagnes</b> - Not very widely available in Brussels' bars. If you see it on the list, try one! Also comes in a very satisfying class with a feminine curve. I like the blonde.</li>
<li><b>Leffe Brune</b> - Not a very unusual choice, but a favourite nevertheless, and potent! Note that I am not a fan of Leffe blonde.</li>
<li><b>Triple Carmeliet </b>- A beer possessed of magic powers, or so Becinbrussels likes to claim. At least drinking a couple of these seems to produce strange effects (in her)! Effects unique to this beer, I should stress.</li>
<li><b>Corsendonk</b> - More strong'uns. They creep up on you. I also stayed in the Corsendonk priory during one rain-soaked cycling trip. Another beautiful bottle. I'm pleased to discover that the Corsendonk makes the list of <a href="http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=ZvD4WAguTdYC&pg=PT959#v=onepage&q&f=false" target="_blank">1001 beers to try before you die</a>. Well, that's one ticked off then. The blond Agnus is described as "spicy and perilously drinkable". Enough said.</li>
<li><b>Kwak </b>- aah, that beer, that glass! If you haven't tried this one, get yourself down to <a href="http://www.ivebeenthere.co.uk/tips/35301" target="_blank">Toone</a> post-haste.</li>
<li><b>Frit Flagey </b>- No, not beer, but visited in my first week back. Delicious.</li>
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I'd better stop there, for now. I may add to this list later.... I haven't yet got my hands on a bottle of <a href="http://www.sintsixtus.be/eng/brouwerij.htm" target="_blank">Westvleteren</a>. My excuse is that reserving and collecting seem complicated, and I don't have regular access to a car. You could try though - see <a href="http://www.sintsixtus.be/eng/brouwerijactueel.htm" target="_blank">here for instructions</a>.<br />
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So, how did I get on with my steak quest? Turning up without a reservation is no problem on a weekday evening: we are briskly directed to a table, and everything proceeds swiftly and efficiently (perhaps a little too efficiently!) Most people are outside on the terrace (Brussels' residents know to make the most of it, when the sun shines), but I like the interior of this bistro-like place, with its many nice touches (waiters in black and white, old bank notes on the walls, a vase of flowers, an old range, plenty of dark wood). I thought the grey shrimp croquettes were very good. We shared, attacking them with gusto, and <i>then </i>realised that we should have taken a picture for the benefit of my readers. Apologies for the yellowish tone, something went wrong.<br />
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For my second course, I really should have remembered <i>that</i> quote from Mr. Frites at Le Coq d'Or. In case you've forgotten what he said to me, it was:<br />
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So really I should have gleaned from this comment that an entrec<span class="st">ôte is quite big. Or it is, if Mr. Frites eats one sans problème. Anyway mine is very good, with its herby butter, and almost seems to cover the whole surface area of the plate. No matter though, it is good meat, and is dispatched nearly in its entirety. Meanwhile boyfriend is smugly tucking in to what he thinks is the lighter option, monkfish (lotte), with its perfectly cooked vegetables. But actually this fish is cooked in so much cream that he is mistaken. But it's very tasty nevertheless (and not as yellow as it appears here).</span><br />
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<span class="st">We think <i>Volle Gas</i> offers good, consistent food in pleasant surroundings, and plenty of choice (mussels, steaks, Belgian specialities). There's also a pretty good beer list (a bit on the pricey side, mind you). It probably comes into its own with groups of 6 or more, when everyone can try something different (really big groups have their own dedicated room). No space for dessert though! We also think the chips could be a bit more, well, Belgian.</span><br />
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<span class="st">Allow about 30-40 euros per person for a starter, main course and a couple of drinks.</span></div>
Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Place Fernand Cocq 21, 1050 Ixelles, Belgium50.8333759 4.367134250.8308689 4.3621986999999995 50.8358829 4.3720697tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-52064181998236538902012-08-09T20:51:00.001+02:002012-08-09T20:51:59.228+02:00Sogno d'Italia<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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Well, just a few hours to go and I will be on holiday. I'm a bit apprehensive about this one, and not only because I won't speak one word of the language. Today in Brussels the sun shone, and lots of people were absent, and their dogs absent too (or so the clean pavements indicated). I like Brussels in August, so what on earth was I thinking? Why did I decide to go away? Why not February, my most hated month? Oh, and while I'm gone, would anyone like to write a guest article for the blog? Too many places to write about. Can't keep up. Need help! <br />
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This holiday will be to one of the most "unfamilar" places I've been to. The sun will probably stay away too, and there will be no beaches or mountains. No chance to practise my Spanish either. I was feeling worried-bordering-on melancholic so I slunk off to the Cimitière d'Ixelles for my final Brussels lunch for a little while: a terrace lunch! Parking is not too much of a headache down here and I'd recommend the area because there are plenty of places to eat and drink, as well as bowling and the studenty <i>Le Tavernier</i> of course. The students never completely take over the place, but at the moment there is a particularly relaxed summery vibe. </div>
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I have a few pizza places at my sleeve to blog about at some stage, but the ones here are pretty good, I think - nothing to rave about for pizza afficionados, but good nevertheless. They also have Hawaiian pizza (unusually), with what tasted like fresh pineapple. It's a nice spot for a lunch outside. Saw others enjoying the daily special, which looked good value at 11.50 euro. </div>
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Does anyone know what has happened to Monte Bianco on rue des Pierres, and the duo of brothers behind it? Every time I've tried to go back it seems shut up and closed. A shame, because the cook was opinionated and noisy and entertaining - and made very good pizzas! Have they moved again?</div>
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Brussels, will miss you!</div>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Chaussée de Boondael 428, 1050 Ixelles, Belgium50.8173229 4.388832150.8148149 4.3838966 50.8198309 4.3937676tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-23106391130163032722012-07-22T16:14:00.000+02:002012-09-08T20:20:58.812+02:00Le Tavernier<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I read recently that not even Brussels' district of students and souls, the Cimitière d'Ixelles, has escaped the influence of the Brussels' bar entrepreneur. Not content with setting up bars such as le Zébra, le Roi des Belges and, most recently, cocktail bar le Potemkine - it transpires that even le Tavernier, that most studenty of Brussels bars, is a Nicolay creation. I was a bit disappointed by this, because although Nicolay is credited with rejuvenating areas of Brussels, his work is beginning to feel like an empire, slowly spreading its tendrils through the Brussels communes. And I liked to think that Le Tavernier, with its live music nights, smoking terrace and warehouse interior, had been colonised and run by the students themselves, not designed with them in mind. Perhaps for that kind of collective-run set-up, I'd have to go to Berlin. The students are manning the bar, though. And one flicks the bacardi bottle in an impressive fashion as he mixes my mojito.</div>
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But I have to give Nicolay some credit: he knows what makes a good bar. He understands what the students want. Le Tavernier is 12 years old this year and still seems to have a captive market in this area. Outside there is the terrace, which is not particularly pretty (especially with the malodorous bins at the front), but is crammed full of people on warm days and evenings and strewn with lights. After that comes the heated smoking terrace, like a smoking incubator, which ensures a steady lifeline of stale cigarette smoke for those in the bar beyond. Then there's the bar itself, with rows of spirits in a rainbow of colours, and the mirrors tilted so you make eye contact with all the other waiting customers. The bar is stainless steel: a good idea, easy to clean. The toilets, at the back, also stainless steel, can be grim but you may still have to pay. There are plenty of wooden tables and chairs and more stainless steel seating outside. There is also the loft above. Last night I was warned from going up there (the natives were rowdy). So I stayed downstairs, where the space is long and dark and boasts a few decrepit armchairs, which are comfy but probably don't smell too good.</div>
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A good time to come to Tavernier is on a warm, lazy afternoon, for your taste of a fresh Nicolay Juice. Perhaps it will bring you success! In the evenings, there are beer and mojitos. Things can get noisy. There may be music. There may be dancing and flirting. Some days there may be none of the above and you will be practically alone. </div>
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The students have mostly finished their exams now, and gone - somewhere. A few still remain, but over the Summer you're as likely to encounter more of us older types hanging out here than the under 20s. Le Tavernier will keep going throughout, although it's lifeblood has left. This Summer it is hosting <a href="http://www.le-tavernier.be/agenda.html" target="_blank">live Cuban bands</a> every Saturday in July and August. The place livens up; couples dance salsa hips in the middle of it all. You realise that this place is just made for live music. At the back bleary- eyed people emerge from the toilets and hurry down the steps, as if joining the musicians on stage.</div>
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We're a bit thin on the ground, but it's better than being crammed in. We're listening to a Cuban 8 person band called <i>Sonac de las Tunas</i>. There's my favourite, the waistcoated trumpeter, face contorting as he squeezes out the notes; the pair at the front doing the singing, extra percussion and the coordinated dance moves; the energetic piano players producing non-stop syncopated rhythms; the percussion guy (who looks like he's having fun); and the bassist who has a special pared down instrument (makes transport from Cuba so much easier).</div>
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The bands come recommended for those of you whose hips twitch involuntarily when you hear this. And it's all a taster for the <a href="http://www.fiesta-latina.be/" target="_blank">fiesta latina</a> later in August - which I'm sorry to be missing this year!</div>
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Open every day from 11am<br />
info@le-tavernier.be<br />
445, Chaussée de Boondael<br />
1050 Ixelles<br />
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Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Chaussée de Boondael 445, 1050 Ixelles, Belgium50.8164999 4.388736250.8139919 4.3838007 50.819007899999995 4.3936717000000005tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-1801554165451864562012-07-15T15:47:00.000+02:002012-07-17T21:31:07.105+02:00Parlamentarium<div style="text-align: left;">
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One side of Place du Luxembourg is dominated by a monster, its two arms extending to clasp the diminutive station building in front of it. Until a few months ago, visitors to this area could do little but wander around the paved area in front of this hulking monolith (as I like to call it), buffeted by the mischievous winds that like to gust through this exposed area (blowing hair up, skirts up, umbrellas inside out), be rained on unrelentingly, peer at the many windows that look out but do not welcome enquiring eyes. The visitors wondered, understandably, what they were doing here. And what all these young, well-dressed people were doing <i>in</i> there, emerging to smoke furtive cigarettes on the steps, or relaxing after work in a heady mix of beer, interns, lobbyists and burgers on the square outside.</div>
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I have also often wondered what I was doing there. But I have at least been inside. Ironic how an institution which prides itself on being elected by the people should have remained so mysterious and inaccessible. Some kind of visitor experience - other than a centre suppyling leaflets in multiple languages - was clearly overdue. </div>
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Generally I think most people would agree that an institution's attempt to say what it does and why it does it can only be a good thing. So I was pre-disposed to like this new visitor centre, even before trying it out. Yes, it cost more to kit out than the education budget of a small country, and doubtless involved much agonising about linguistic diversity and how to present the trickier bits of European history. But a lot of thought has been invested in this new visitor experience - sometimes perhaps too much. </div>
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I decide that for my second visit to the Parlamentarium (the fact this is the second is already a good sign), I would be accompanied by my boyfriend: someone with limited understanding of what the European Parliament does. I'm interested to see what he will make of it. </div>
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<b>Part 1</b></div>
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It's Wednesday evening and we collect our audio guides and are soon at our first exhibit. Not the best start, this. Only minutes in, and we are struggling to use our new-fangled i-phone guides and trying to distinguish between three horribly similar white models. Now, which one is Strasbourg, which one Spinelli, which one Weiss....? Who cares? They're not the most imaginative of models. To add to our confusion, neon text flashes by on the screen, as if we were on the trading floor of the NASDAQ. And a lot of suspended signs tell us where Helsinki, Riga and Vienna are. I am frustrated: by my inability to use the technology; and what this is supposed to teach us. It's as if they only had a small space and were unsure what to put in it. A guide takes pity on us and explains we need to sweep the back of our device across the smiling kids icon to get our audio to work. But I know there is better to come, so we abandon this and move on. </div>
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<b>Part 2</b></div>
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In part 2 there are more guides and a dark tunnel. Screens embedded in walls give some of the historical background: a background of gas masks, destroyed cities, queues, rationing and evacuations in various EU Member States - the context which led to the development of the European Union. This is interesting, although I struggle with the way it is presented and would have liked a more traditional format. The oh-so-smart smart phone manages to get me on the internet and I need expert help to free myself of its tyranny. Meanwhile some of the smiley face signs are already rubbed off. There are no smiles in this dark corridor of history, anyway. Sometimes there's no audio either and you just have to read your screen to yourself. There's something about part 2 that is frustrating me. So we keep walking, no better informed. I'm pondering one of the quotes on the wall:</div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">'What, in concrete and practical terms
does the independence of nations mean in the world of today, a world of
the closest economic and political interdependence, which means the
destiny of all mankind is indivisible.' (Julius Braunthal)</span></blockquote>
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Sorry, Daily Mail. I deliberate this throughout my visit and at the end I still think he has a good point. </div>
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<b>Part 3</b></div>
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After a pause, where I put my head in Verdi's head in a corner (again, purpose of this uncertain), we're on to part 3. Part 3 is good, and we've worked out how to use our i-phones by now. Things have got more interesting. We're in a well-lit space, with counters containing papers on the political genesis of the European Coal and Steel Community, and letters discussing the new Franco-German cooperation in the Ruhr region, and another letter showing that this was all welcomed by the US at the time. The touch screens are a help rather than a hindrance (better than reading a lengthy piece of text on the wall.) I read the story of de Gaulle vetoing - twice - the UK's membership of the EU, describing the UK as the "cheval de Troie des Etats-Unis". Perhaps the most interesting part, though, is a wall of photos from the last few decades, capturing a moment in history in each Member State. You can read a short synopsis of the event on your i-phone: moon landings, martial law, the Solidarity movement, Dolly the sheep.... The boyfriend is interested to learn that in 1963 there were already protests calling for a Federal Belgium; and to see laid-off workers in front of the Vilvoorde factory. And then there are also the early mobile phones, circa 1986; </div>
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"The only thing you can do with these early mobiles is make calls", says my audio guide. </div>
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"But making calls is really all I need it for. Well, it's still my main purpose", I protest, glaring at my futuristic i-phone, accusingly. By the way, the Parliament is obviously really, really proud that it helped make roaming charges cheaper. But this is all European history, not about the European Parliament per se. But no matter, we are interested. Apparently the late 1990s saw record highs in European unemployment. Both of us wonder if those records have since been broken.</div>
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<b>Part 4</b></div>
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Part 4 is a wall of MEP faces. There's not much more to say about those. Moving on....</div>
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<b>Part 5</b></div>
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This is where you can see the EP in action! A 360 degree cinema; all action enhanced for dramatic effect. You are seated in the auditorium to watch the orators, almost as if you were taking part in the debate: championing the rights of European citizens, protecting the environment, alerting us to dangerous hazards, human rights abuses, outrages in one's constituency etc, etc. The people around me seem to enjoy it. I learn something new. Nobody walks out.</div>
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<b>Part 6</b></div>
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It's a shame, but by the time we're on to part 6 (my favourite part) the attentive (and multilingual staff) are hovering around us, indicating it is time to take our leave. Meanwhile, the boyfriend's face has lit up with glee at the prospect of what we're supposed to do next: trundle wheelie-screen boxes across a map of Europe, pausing to hear historical snippets and facts about different European cities. Again, the link to the European Parliament is not always obvious, but as we only have time for a brief play around here I cannot remember if we learn about particular pieces of European legislation at this point. I think we do. Anyway, as I said, this is fun so make sure you spare some time for it. Along the wall there are globes to be spun, which show the European Parliament's cooperation with third countries. </div>
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After this we pass by the final exhibit, a bizarre collection of belongings from a handful of MEPs, where you can see their owners talk about future challenges - for the Union, I guess - or possibly the Whole World. All a bit odd. But then comes the final flourish. As the young staff look on, visitors are free to express their hopes for the future - via a high-tech neon screen, <i>bien s<span class="st"><i>ûr</i></span></i>. For better or for worse, there's no censorship. We say whatever pops into our heads and then leave, satisfied with ourselves and our visit.</div>
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In summary: a visitor centre (long overdue), helpful young staff, doesn't cost a single euro cent. There's also a café and a gift shop selling various things with questionable links to the European Parliament. Said café goes untested for once. We say this Parlamentarium is worth a visit.</div>
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Parlamentarium - The European Parliament's Visitors' Centre</div>
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Willy Brandt Building</div>
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Rue Wiertz 60/ Wiertzstraat 60</div>
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B-1047 Brussels</div>
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Belgium</div>
For opening times see:</div>
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http://www.europarl.europa.eu/visiting/en/parlamentarium </div>
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(Open until 20:00 Tuesday and Wednesday)</div>
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Suggested visit time: around 1.5 hours </div>
</div>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Rue Wiertz 60, 1047 City of Brussels, Belgium50.8386567 4.375313650.8361497 4.3703781 50.8411637 4.3802491tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-30385653009742384042012-07-07T12:30:00.001+02:002012-07-07T12:30:32.286+02:00Food and Wine<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
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I know. Here it is: not for the first time, you are invited to contemplate my lunch. <br />
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It's the moment before I start eating the sea bass. It sits, perfectly grilled and plump on a line of olives and gently-warmed ratatouille. Potatoes, pine nuts and parmesan are scattered about. The roquette and pesto add green, a reminder of Summer. It is my favourite tasting dish, and - who knows - is probably healthy as well. <br />
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The sea bass has lured me back to <i>Food and Wine</i> again, a bistro-like place on rue Belliard, full of be-suited folk (all capable of creating as much noise as the road outside). I'm in the garden, and it is sunny. <br />
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Later, our dessert has orangey sauce to lavish on a chocolate tart, and panna cotta with a dribble of coulis and strawberries in (look, enjoy!) When they took our not-quite-finished rosé away, we objected and received full glasses back (no apology though). No sulking, just more rosé.<br />
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The photographs - of my lunch, breakfast, dinner - are the constant. A year, and then some, of eating. But behind them is me. Just writing, sometimes: about things I've learned, keeping up appearances, not knowing what you're doing with your life, choosing to leave something because whatever others say it's better than continuing. Being courageous, being cowardly. Being incorrigibly untidy and indecisive. Laughing.<br />
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I fear it may be time. Time to start blogging again.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5U8IkA2UHlXHdkLSfmqJniP8tI86kX60PUO04coH5mkp3LHqmkjlZ0vN0dFkUdaiawwqwVnQDAX6GZyjZ3k8zuYwwuQUt8JkLN6msDcvWcNwuVtixS38SZgsgr4Uw2SHPjh1q6SVOTBY/s1600/034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5U8IkA2UHlXHdkLSfmqJniP8tI86kX60PUO04coH5mkp3LHqmkjlZ0vN0dFkUdaiawwqwVnQDAX6GZyjZ3k8zuYwwuQUt8JkLN6msDcvWcNwuVtixS38SZgsgr4Uw2SHPjh1q6SVOTBY/s320/034.JPG" width="320" /></a>Food and Wine<br />
rue Belliard 181<br />
1040 Etterbeek<br />
Brussels<br />
02 282 94 98<br />
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Open for lunch and dinner Monday to Friday.<br />
It's a 5-10 minute walk from the European Parliament and the Commission, and a 5 minute wander from Place Jourdan. <br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"></span>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Rue Belliard 181, 1040 City of Brussels, Belgium50.8397115 4.382819350.8372045 4.3778838 50.8422185 4.3877548000000006tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-44396875017533235872012-06-14T23:15:00.000+02:002012-06-18T11:17:08.926+02:00Le Dolma<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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40 years is a long time. But that is how long Le Dolma veggie restaurant and adjoining organic shop have been open. And 38 years here, in this location at the tattier of the two tatty ends of Chauss<span class="pp-headline-item pp-headline-address" dir="ltr">é</span>e d'Ixelles, incongruously situated near a shisha bar, a plumbers and high-end hifi shop. I must have trudged past it numerous times in the last 56 months. I have ventured into the shop, but I'd never tried the restaurant before until now. It must have been the curtains at the window that deterred me. Plus there's a bar at the front where nobody ever seems to be eating or drinking and you can't see in very far. What does one do in here? They claim it is a restaurant.<br />
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But I did enter, and then I discovered Dolma's speciality: the all-you-can-cram-in vegetarian buffet! It's been available since 1997 and is now the most popular thing they do, concocted by a team each day and including a choice of around 12 different starters and main dishes, including a soup and other side dishes. The week's menu is available <a href="http://www.dolma.be/" target="_blank">online</a> so you can pick your preferred day in advance. Some of the dishes are vegan. This week Tuesday and Wednesday win out for me. <br />
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Actually there are plenty of customers, but they're all cocooned away in a extension at the back with the Friday-Saturday piano, talking not too loudly, drinking things that are good for them, eating wholesomely and fully- and rounding it all off with a chocolate slice or apple pie. I relish the feeling of serenity; warm yellow walls, pine and Tibetan influences just a few strides from noisy Place Flagey. Regulars at a neighbouring table advise us to just go and attack the buffet rather than wait. We do. And then we go back again. Now, stomach tightly packed with every variety of bean, pulse, rice and grain, I rue my earlier expressed desire for "a light, healthy meal". But nobody stops you returning, not even my dining partner-in-crime, watching me with amused eyes while I scan others' plates for more of that delicious tofu something- or-other, the feta frittata or that sweet potato puree. This is serious refuelling that unfolds in serene stages. At dessert, some kind of restraint is required, in the form of a polite notice asking us to eat just the one slice. I take mine and as I slowly chew on cinnamony apples, I watch the other guests do the same.<br />
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I wasn't expecting to overdo it with vegetarian food. But then, if I could cook like this, I would eat vegetarian more often. It's nothing complicated, certainly - just simple and delicious, and my digestive system approves. I cannot eat another bean.<br />
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Fascinating fact: I tried Tibetan meditation in Brussels last year.<br />
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Le Dolma is open Tuesday to Saturday 12:00- 14:00 and 19:00 - 21:30 (although the buffet closes at 22:00)<br />
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The buffet costs 18 euro at lunch-time and 22 euro in the evening (not including drinks)<br />
For reservations call <b style="font-weight: normal;">02 649 89 81</b><br />
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<b style="font-weight: normal;">Chauss</b><span class="pp-headline-item pp-headline-address" dir="ltr">é</span><b style="font-weight: normal;">e d'Ixelles, 329</b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;">1050 Ixelles</b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;">Brussels </b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-60476218605624489922012-06-04T22:09:00.000+02:002012-06-10T12:53:41.598+02:00Le Greenwich<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Becinbrussels is cold, and craving homely places with an open fire. She would much rather not attack the washing up. So instead of writing about other places she has been promising to write about for ages - or writing about herself, for a completely different purpose - here is another take on <i>Le Greenwich</i>, but focussed this time on the food. <br />
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It is rather beautiful, you see. So beautiful I want to sit in here of an afternoon all on my own, cradling my beverage and looking dreamily at the <i>dorures</i>. And then a last walk through past turquoise walls, mahogany, regimented tables, black-white tiled bathroom and cash register, out of my Victorian gentleman's club. But the chess players and their smoky haze are gone, and with all those gleaming lights, knowledgeable - but commercially minded - waiters, dark wood and gilding it's hard to imagine them coming back. Which is a shame, because that was supposed to be what <i>Le Greenwich </i>was all about. <br />
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Even though the liveried waiters seem to presume that you will eat here of an evening, and that scruffy artists are no longer exactly welcomed, <i>Le Greenwich</i> is now a striking place to linger over a beer. The bar has been scrubbed, preened and beautified - 5 million euros of regional funding and the owner's investment have been lavished on it, after all. No wonder they want you to eat. The food prices are a little higher than you might expect for a Brussels brasserie. As my friend observed; "il faut rembourser les dorures!"<br />
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I say thank goodness someone stepped in to save<i> Le Greenwich</i>! For too long this dark, dingy, sad bar had traded on a reputation long since lost in its years of damp and grime. However, despite the efforts to replace chess players with hungry tourists, I would say savour the surroundings over a beer - have one, have two, have seven - but leave the food alone for the moment. And perhaps, eventually, if we all insist in turning up with chess boards the management will relent and let us play!<br />
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Probably the only thing you could eat here before were some peanuts as you hunched over your chess game, oblivious to all the hidden beauty. In my imagination I want to see the overgrown, unwashed beer drinkers of yesteryear come back in; I want to see Magritte's face and know what he makes of it. But instead all the curious characters we're likely to see are tourists: and the owner has wisely chosen a selection of Belgian meals to pull <i>them</i> in: including such staples as <i>lapin </i><span class="st"><i></i> <i>à</i></span><i> la kriek, boulettes, carbonnades</i> and, I think, eels.<br />
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We have a burger and boulettes (meatballs). I decide that trying a Belgian cuisine staple is a good way to test culinary pretensions.<br />
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The first few mouthfuls taste fine. But then, an alarming discovery. I think I spy foie gras on my friend's burger. "No, no, it cannot be!" Says my friend. "It's like low quality p<span class="st"><i>â</i></span>té." This cannot be foie gras.<br />
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It is foie gras; the waiter confirms it. In any case, foie gras just adds pretension to a burger that isn't actually very good. "I don't think it's a good idea to add foie gras to a burger", my friend says. In any case, we judge the burger not worth the 16 euros we paid for it. You can have cheaper and better elsewhere on my blog, but then there is the question of the surroundings - and those <i>dorures</i>.<br />
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I start the boulettes and several mouthfuls in we have another problem: a salty problem. True, I don't add salt to anything much, but this meal is providing my weekly allowance of salt in one overloaded sitting. I can feel it coating my lips. Midway through, the dish has to be abandoned. I have a headache and am ravaged by thirst. The chips are thin, salty and moreish; Morgan Spurlock tormentors better at home in a fast food restaurant. Perhaps the chef just slipped with the salt shaker? I'm left wondering how in a land of such of renowned frites, we're left eating fries of such low quality. <br />
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Meanwhile, the bread is judged to be pretty good.<br />
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Bread conversation in Le Greenwich, sometime in May 2012</div>
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<i>Lui: "Pour savoir si un pain est bon il y a deux critères. La <span class="st"><i>croûte doit être épaise et croustillante, et la mie de pain, elle doit avoir des gros trous."</i></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="st"><i><br /> (Pregnant pause, while Becinbrussels absorbs this nugget, wisely deciding against questioning this juicy piece of received French wisdom)</i></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="st"><i>..."Mais pas partout, quoi"</i></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="st"><i>Moi: hein? Et ce pain-ci? </i></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="st"><i><br /></i></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span class="st"><i>And so, the verdict on this bread: Not bad at all. It has one of the two criteria: the holes. But the </i></span><span class="st"><i>croûte </i></span></i><span class="st"><i><i>(crust) is molle (soft).... </i></i></span></div>
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<span class="st">More about my bread tasting another time. </span></div>
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<br />
With such an effort made on the surroundings, the food has a bit of catching up to do.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
rue des Chartreux 7</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
1000 Brussels </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tel: 02 511 41 67 </div>
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<span class="st"><i><i> </i></i></span></div>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com07 Rue des Chartreux, Brussels45.7724877 4.822226745.7711032 4.8197592 45.7738722 4.8246942tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-10167432497640016012012-05-19T10:04:00.000+02:002013-01-19T00:59:31.766+01:00Friterie Tabora<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgysqNbgDAxyAzOgVFUIiXdr3AIs7Yd500xGj9iXMAWLh4LoOOn-qvY5qMPTGac9wvwVHoIR-XqyjAzD4SVvd67HJqoxKdJhXHEAYHRg2GtnSh0jELWCUUCw_a9YVX9V-Aa86OTP0IMQHdC/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgysqNbgDAxyAzOgVFUIiXdr3AIs7Yd500xGj9iXMAWLh4LoOOn-qvY5qMPTGac9wvwVHoIR-XqyjAzD4SVvd67HJqoxKdJhXHEAYHRg2GtnSh0jELWCUUCw_a9YVX9V-Aa86OTP0IMQHdC/s320/004.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3pwTTqMGycOeM7kDS4Tlv_OBWhAbPCtr7Dd8sLFnnkO_CBjvzW-3J2PqdNgxwJCq1mPC6d85K_XSMD-ISlZUQC-eAQRRU5Lih01pOyo0gVII6ZrmPEUIkzMPCzewRVP232iNrVXSsQ2HG/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3pwTTqMGycOeM7kDS4Tlv_OBWhAbPCtr7Dd8sLFnnkO_CBjvzW-3J2PqdNgxwJCq1mPC6d85K_XSMD-ISlZUQC-eAQRRU5Lih01pOyo0gVII6ZrmPEUIkzMPCzewRVP232iNrVXSsQ2HG/s320/005.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a> Back with my parents for a few days, I catch my Dad with bemused eyes taking in my waistline. He asks, all innocent-like, if I have been doing much café reviewing lately. <br />
<br />
Yes, I say, mortified that the beer drinking has so quickly and obviously made its way to my belly. I resolve to start running again, properly. I pantingly manage five laps and twenty minutes of the local park, but I am a long way from my 20km fitness of last year. <br />
<br />
And then there are the frites. The latest offerings here are from Friterie Tabora, which promises non frozen specimens, although the meat stacks under the counter appear barely defrosted. The housemates and I are hungry. Very hungry. We're about to try Scottish dancing, some of us for the first time.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monstrous! These were NOT mine</td></tr>
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Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you this wonderful carb-tastic Belgian creation: the mitraillette (sub-machine gun)! Fried burger (or some form of meat-like substance), a dollop of mayonnaise, some additional sauce like andalouse, cocktail or pickels, and a generous two handfuls of chips, encased in a hefty, doughy, white demi-baguette. Crikey. I can just imagine it sitting in my stomach like a log.<br />
<br />
It's too much for the first of my housemates. We enjoy the standing in the queue talking to the friendly chip man, and advising giggly American girls on saucy options. I choose my usual cornet of frites with the distinctly unsaucy, non-piquant Provençale, but in extra large this time. <br />
<br />
It's rather hard to judge your frites, unless you're willing to sample several cornets of an evening. And my waistline might suggest otherwise, but I don't eat chips very often, and fear mitraillettes would provoke chronic indigestion: a kind of punch-up between stomach acid, potato and beef fat, with some egg and spice to make it twice as nice. I like these chips, but perhaps chips vary a bit like the weather: you get a good batch; you get a bad batch. People move on, and so the reputations of different frietkots move with the people who run them. They're a lovely golden colour and deliciously tasty. They are better than Maison Antoine (where last time I was stung by their mediocrity, for a place so famed!) Those at FritFlagey are more misshapen and not so uniform in colour, which is a good thing. I think they still win out over Tabora and Fritland, but it is difficult to say. And probably it doesn't matter. Tabora's are really pretty good.<br />
<br />
"So what do you think of these chips then?" I ask, to nobody in particular. With eyes glazed, and cheeks rosy, my friends are chewing away at their mitraillette determinedly and placidly. Nobody says a word. <br />
<br />
rue de Tabora 2<br />
(staggering distance from Bourse, the Grand Place - and Fritland - and always there for the really, really hungry)<br />
<br />
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MitrailletteBecinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-91561596362066403902012-05-13T17:52:00.000+02:002012-05-13T17:54:49.453+02:00Café Merlo"If you don't like it, I'll drink it. I'm also thirsty!" Says the barman at Café Merlo. We've just scuttled in, like beetles shrouded in winter coats, after several minutes of purposeful walking, heads down, through the May drizzle. Once inside and warm my glasses steam up and I don't know what to have to drink, as usual. On the list there are very few beers I don't know the name of; I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not. Mainly just to please our affable barman, I pretend I've never had <i>Rodenbach</i> before. I have, but think I disliked it, and I hope to be proven wrong. My friend has the "Brussels calling", with its tagline "bitter is better." The barman's advice: whenever you see the name <a href="http://www.brasseriedelasenne.be/" target="_blank">Brasserie de la Senne</a>, try one of their beers because they are always good. Good, and they're from Brussels.<br />
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Sadly for the <i>Rodenbach</i>, it is not a beer I appreciate or will pick ever again. But I don't think I can hand it back. Instead I am left wondering how a beer can taste so much like Worcestershire sauce: kind of vinegary, like it should be a flavour enhancer added to an under-performing bolognese. <br />
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Our host is happy to talk, in-between serving everyone at the rectangular bar that encloses him. Stools and seats are in short supply: I'd have to come earlier on a Friday to be sure of a seat, even though there are some more spaces - and another bar - upstairs. Up there it feels like a private room.<br />
<br />
How to sum up Café Merlo? Perched on my stool I watch Duvel being expertly poured and strain to read the "Loi de l'ivresse" perched in its frame above postcards, spirits and a bottle of Laphroaig. Flemish is predominant here, but French, English, Italian or Spanish will probably do as well. This time the crowd cannot be idly typecast from atop my bar stool. <br />
<br />
We decide this is a bar for lazing on a summer terrace. Outside this is the non-business end of Place Sainte-Catherine. Inside we could sit in the window nook, with the Scrabble. Yes, the board games have been duly noted for next time. <br />
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<br />
Café Merlo <br />
Baksteenkaai 80<br />
Brussels<br />
1000 Brussels<br />
<br />Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-11345313579005723042012-05-05T18:07:00.001+02:002012-05-05T18:09:10.278+02:00Au Daringman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Mid-way down the rue de Flandre there is a tiny bar in the corner, <i>Au Daringman</i>. It has red neon strip lighting and a darkly wooden interior with an old Stella hoarding. The bar at the back has a mirrored backdrop and a huge vase of white roses. With its red-brown wood panelling, old benches and flowers it reminds me of <i>L'Archiduc.</i> I like it here.<br />
<br />
When I arrive my friend is already shivering in front of <i>Café Monk</i>. Tonight <i>Café Monk </i>is heaving. I like it in there too but tonight it looks overrun, forcing raucous patrons to speak loudly to be heard over the din. Not the best place for a first date, as I know from experience. I prefer the smaller bruin café just a couple of minutes away.<br />
<br />
My objective for the evening had been to try some new beers, and on the list there are several that are unfamiliar. My housemate told me they speak Flemish here. The pretty bar girl, with her bat-wing eyeliner and tiny waist, definitely prefers Flemish or English. I can only order two hot chocolates in Flemish, and the first time I tried that I received two cappuccinos instead. English it is then. I order a new beer, and it's really good, but later on leaving we realise we've both forgotten its name! Next time I will note it down, because I've yet to notice this beer anywhere else. <br />
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Everyone squishes up at little tables: regulars and new faces. The place has a lefty Bohemian air: a copy of Libération is casually discarded on a table beside me, and there are a mix of young students with dreadlocks and untidy hair, and slightly older groups who are more mysterious and resist attempts at stereotyping, but I suspect they like jazz. My hair is also not at its best, but I like the fact that nobody pays you any attention, certainly no more than you deserve, and nor are you made to feel unwanted either. We listen to 60s classics and more Miles Davis. Later, we shift up on our bench to make space for a lady with a sharp dark bob and strong jaw, above eyeliner, leather jacket, and patterned tights in clumpy boots. I notice her hands are masculine; she sits dreamily and writes in her book.<br />
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When we leave <i>Au Daringman </i>the cobbles are greasy with rain, and it's disappointingly, unseasonably, unsociably cold. A few minutes later, we are relieved to arrive at our next bar........<br />
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<br />
<br />
rue de Flandre 37<br />
Brussels<br />
+32 (0)2 512 43 23 <br />
<i>Au Daringman </i>is also open lunchtimes Tuesday to Friday. I've heard that sometimes there are concerts upstairs in the evenings.Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-74086689041115392352012-05-04T19:15:00.001+02:002012-05-04T19:16:23.701+02:00Madagasikara<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Madagasikara is a resturant squeezed down the end of the rue de Flandre. On the way there we pass some amusingly-named little side streets and yet more enticing bars. Now here's another area of town I need to research: the list of beers and bars papering one of the walls in my kitchen is growing, teasing me. I need help. I'm fed up with being rained on, too. And of days withering at a desk, while something is busy dying inside me. On the plant on my desk there is a single green shoot. Grow little shoot, grow! <br />
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I'm not the only one floundering at the moment: my housemates and I decide none of us feel like cooking. Usually we all cook for ourselves rather than work together on some big communal meal. The oven is temperamental and when finally you manage to light the gas at the bottom, you jump back startled, your fingers smelling of singed pork and missing a few strands of downy hair. One housemate always cooks plentifully and the leftovers stake out the fridge for quite a while until one of us succumbs to this particular endurance contest; the other shares my boundless love for mashed potato and makes a delicious OREO cake (I hope she's reading this, we haven't had one for a while). And me, well I like baking, and I cook a lot of mince. When the supermarket runs out I even cook Américain mince, but don't tell any Belgians I said that.<br />
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"Don't worry", says the lady in Madagasikara, after I've made my meal choice. "Don't let it put you off. Your fish dish is cooked with these special leaves. They produce a special effect in your mouth. It's not unpleasant; just kind of.... ticklish. It's OK", she continues, as a flicker of pained worry crosses my face, to be replaced by the beginnings of a sly grin. I can hardly not try ticklish leaves now, can I? My housemates opt for the safer options of chicken curry and gambas, but I take the meal complete with its own disclaimer.<br />
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I can hardly complain, it's my own fault. We all have some cold pickled vegetables on our plate, which we like. My friends are busy enjoying their mild coconut curry and rum-soaked gambas. But at the first mouthful of the lime and leaf infused fish stew my tongue recoils in horror. The dish is overpowering, smoky brininess seeping into every morsel. The lime doesn't stand a chance. Then I place the fish in my mouth and more troublingly, I realise I have several bones in there somewhere, my cheeks contorting as I try to locate them. For a moment everything comes into perspective - tedious days in the office, contrary weather, absent friends and unexplained bad temper - and I hope that my housemates remember the Heimlich maneouvre. I've never choked on food and didn't expect to have to pick through sauce and a little clutch of bones. I'd rather hoped that the restaurant would do that for me. Still I was warned, and the cook and his wife are genuine and friendly. I just ordered the wrong thing.<br />
<br />
The others like their food, but nobody is overflowing with praise. It's possibly because the food is slightly overpriced for the not over-generous quantity you get: we pay 75 euros for a main course and three soft drinks. You can have tajines and tapas for less. I'm also a little disappointed by my non- alcoholic cocktail, which promises much with its list of ingredients, but turns out to taste a little like normal juice, and is gone in 6 mouthfuls...<br />
<br />
Particularly when the team behind a restaurant hasn't done anything to deserve my ire, I don't like to criticise. The decor, music and company has all been carefully considered to give me an enjoyable evening. I like the blackboard map of the island as you come in, the husband and wife team are smiling, and I've had my first experience of a country I have never visited, eating something authentic and different. I've spent the 1 May holiday in the sun, walking in the fresh air in a place near Brussels which not many people seemed aware of: they were at the Laeken greenhouses instead. So maybe it was just the fish. My friends liked their food. <i>You</i> know I'm not fond of salty food, and this tastes like Lapsang Souschong. I'm <i>Becinbrussels</i>, I'm a wanderer. And the most important thing I learnt at university: to keep exploring, keep learning, there is no right answer. Hey readers, you don't have to listen to me.<br />
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Madagasikara</div>
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10 rue de Flandre</div>
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1000 Brussels</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tel: 04 73 44 40 74</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
info@madagikara.be</div>
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Closed Sunday lunch and Wednesday</div>
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</tbody></table>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-27031157098003738782012-04-15T13:48:00.009+02:002012-04-18T21:55:31.309+02:00Arpaije<blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"To be honest, at the start of my training, I was only at <i>Arpaije </i>to pass the time; but gradually my supervisors inspired me to work in this profession, and now I'm completely immersed in it and will never want to leave". (Diaby, trainee)</div></blockquote><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDW6fLjPrK6l8CUbMB0Uqg0Tx11qq-bqVqduFQ8ou8IIlhLE4QIQ-Runho3_wX77cyam7CBWUMXw3K1ohyphenhyphenwgE8sPLDdPAIGteKjDvRm2OFpEPZ9azYKjWLBcG41pxUpNGmkk9BX2TzS5Md/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDW6fLjPrK6l8CUbMB0Uqg0Tx11qq-bqVqduFQ8ou8IIlhLE4QIQ-Runho3_wX77cyam7CBWUMXw3K1ohyphenhyphenwgE8sPLDdPAIGteKjDvRm2OFpEPZ9azYKjWLBcG41pxUpNGmkk9BX2TzS5Md/s320/003.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0IUqgI02-rP9mu8hy1XsaySl2WOWSrC6St4RiV7EXeoprIGNkaeCPC7HkSsXlHMEzTmQLZ_N3mz1_i6hBSxhnwHvhxJmoFUz3j0B_rZeyuzuxHRt0h-TcLkezTmgx1zKQW5IKzl2VBFU/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0IUqgI02-rP9mu8hy1XsaySl2WOWSrC6St4RiV7EXeoprIGNkaeCPC7HkSsXlHMEzTmQLZ_N3mz1_i6hBSxhnwHvhxJmoFUz3j0B_rZeyuzuxHRt0h-TcLkezTmgx1zKQW5IKzl2VBFU/s320/001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I've never been a good cook. For one thing I lack the precision and patience to present dishes imaginatively; not to mention my inability to manage several bubbling pots, an angry spitting frying pan and hold a conversation at the same time. Cooking for others is worse. Perhaps that explains why I don't host dinner parties - or get invited to them - very often. And why I have a healthy respect for people who choose to work in busy kitchens - and emerge at the end of the day, not burned, not scalded - unscathed! <br />
<br />
<br />
In <i>Arpaije</i>, I notice that I am savouring my food more than usual; taking time to admire the little details of presentation. It makes a difference to know that the people in the kitchen preparing my food might not have taken to cooking at first: they might have tried various professions: waitressing, bed-making, washing up hundreds of dirty plates. They might have come from overseas; have been excluded from traditional training programmes through their lack of formal qualifications. They probably have spent some time unemployed. Fortunately <i>Arpaije</i> is there, training its recruits for the demanding work in restaurant kitchens. It's like Jamie Oliver's <i>Fifteen</i>, without the benefit of a famous face and all that publicity. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb01FOkJgH-bigqnsf3KdMcVsewDXGnvc58qwYuWrk0fAHNsj893ZZcU-7ADRB8unmvvbFF-sJhNiMLhRB8VJJ4AspGuYWJI2JhIFcwgxlxw9GMH73CRmb6-jB0W0BHnvUa0MXkbjpjL4g/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb01FOkJgH-bigqnsf3KdMcVsewDXGnvc58qwYuWrk0fAHNsj893ZZcU-7ADRB8unmvvbFF-sJhNiMLhRB8VJJ4AspGuYWJI2JhIFcwgxlxw9GMH73CRmb6-jB0W0BHnvUa0MXkbjpjL4g/s320/004.JPG" width="320" /></a>For the selection it's "un petit test, rien de compliqué". The supervisor chef has been watching me as I enjoy my three-course lunch, and particularly today I have no desire to take photos, to ask questions, to draw attention to myself in this calm setting. But I feel strongly that this little restaurant deserves to be written about - and the chef needs an explanation as to why I am taking pictures of every single dish that arrives on our table.... <i>Arpaije</i> has been running for about 11 years - and you only need to read the testimonies on the website to see that it has been successful in helping young people find jobs. "It's just a shame you're not open in the evenings", I say, thinking that the customers would stream in. But the chef is firm: the recruits are in training from 8:30 until 16:00, and that is enough. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIeCJeDVJy5YuM5o2WXQMKJQdKGYiSiEZgqu2-TMFzsaVzvZ38DAQtqZ4LZ8QEOxXsLgzvmN4OW7DiXtjGn19qjXZrdM0A86sBKLXYG9ibAV01cEDZyy5g7ZlZEqhrsDEHepF1m_IoH4eh/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIeCJeDVJy5YuM5o2WXQMKJQdKGYiSiEZgqu2-TMFzsaVzvZ38DAQtqZ4LZ8QEOxXsLgzvmN4OW7DiXtjGn19qjXZrdM0A86sBKLXYG9ibAV01cEDZyy5g7ZlZEqhrsDEHepF1m_IoH4eh/s320/005.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La suggestion du jour (very good, said Becinbrussels' friend)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>People of Brussels, if you're free of a lunch-time, or can sneak out for a longer lunch than usual, flock to enjoy one of the best value three course meals in Ixelles! A princely 12 euros 50 for a three course meal to rival anything you'll eat in a mid-price restaurant; served with the knowledge that yes, you're assisting in a non-profit training programme, but you're getting a very good deal out of it as well.... Our three course meal with an apéritif comes to just over 30 euros. <i>Arpaije</i>, forget <i>La Truffe Noire</i>, your tables should have a waiting list! Instead, I reserve the day before and the restaurant is only half full.<br />
<br />
We are gently shepherded through our lunch by a calm, serious, smiling waiter. He tells us about the sister traiteur and café on Malibran, but here it is "plus gastronomique". All the recruits are professional: I find myself trying to be more polite to match the patience of the trainees; patience being something that for people in this industry, it is all to easy to lose. I only see one of the trainers intervene once to show a recruit how to pour red wine the sophisticated way. We praise the food regularly and fully, and that's because it really is very good. Particular highlights include both the fish tartare and mozzarella tomato tart starters; the main courses (particularly the delicious honeyed sauce to accompany my cochon de lait); and the desserts - aaaah, that pain perdu! The coconut milk and mango rice pudding is delicious, but <i>that </i>pain perdu with strawberries wins the Battle of the Desserts. Actually, that's the whole menu, the highlight: <i>"magnifique <span class="st"><i>à</i></span> tout point de vue</i>", we agree. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcRttqVqqcORMO7qAgH0NZx2xpv39l3lET1eCEf8WOFvhQcWsuDW7sQ7G-nEkR79F6-M-KfXDu7hVXl-Ci7IXzm9N8WoYcFj7tncwmnzNu4H2FXJNHrpn0QcCCDHdh9ekNjFEU8nnKSf3t/s1600/009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcRttqVqqcORMO7qAgH0NZx2xpv39l3lET1eCEf8WOFvhQcWsuDW7sQ7G-nEkR79F6-M-KfXDu7hVXl-Ci7IXzm9N8WoYcFj7tncwmnzNu4H2FXJNHrpn0QcCCDHdh9ekNjFEU8nnKSf3t/s320/009.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>That</i> pain perdu</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPue0WEalov7PnE9wqOm62QWJ6gtVtJ0ZvxETTzZhHEXYvC4zUrNb_4A_gSRwFm7_zz8ce6dUjqWI6EHT5ACLmXInm9w_3h78U1ZrruteJriXb1sDREozKjCDQuyEWzRrxyixOZYYlBlW0/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPue0WEalov7PnE9wqOm62QWJ6gtVtJ0ZvxETTzZhHEXYvC4zUrNb_4A_gSRwFm7_zz8ce6dUjqWI6EHT5ACLmXInm9w_3h78U1ZrruteJriXb1sDREozKjCDQuyEWzRrxyixOZYYlBlW0/s320/008.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">rice pudding</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Arpaije's menu changes every two weeks (check the website for the current offering).<br />
<br />
<i>Becandbrussels and friend ate:</i><br />
<div style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i> </i></div><div style="color: #d9d2e9; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="color: #b4a7d6; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">- ENTREES -</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">°</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Gâteau de tomates-mozzarella & crumble d’olives<br />
ou<br />
Tartare de dorade royale sur écailles de pommes</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">- PLATS -</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">°</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Cochon de lait grillé aux asperges, sauce miel aux oignons nouveaux, gratin dauphinois<br />
ou<br />
Filet de bar printanier poché</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">ou</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Suggestion du jour</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">- DESSERTS -</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">°</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Pain perdu aux fraises, boule de glace<br />
ou<br />
Riz au lait de coco sur coulis de mangue</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #b4a7d6; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">*</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">However my final word on <i>Arpaije </i><a href="http://www.arpaije.be/?page_id=37" target="_blank">must come from the trainees themselves</a>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Rosiya writes: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>"Je voudrais remercier tous mes chefs d'avoir cru en moi et de m'avoir donné le courage de rester jusqu'au bout".</i><i> </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <i> </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i>Kaly writes: </i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i> </i> </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>J’ai choisi de faire une formation de cuisine pour la simple raison que je n’arrivais pas à préparer ma nourriture! (...) </i><i>C’est grâce à un formateur d’ARPAIJE que j’ai trouvé mon premier travail à durée indéterminée dans une brasserie bien connue de Bruxelles." </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div>Grégory writes:<br />
<br />
<i>"Ça fait 4 mois que je suis en formation ; la journée se passe bien, mes collègues sont sympas et peu importe si on n’est pas tous de la même nationalité, car on apprend tous les jours quelque chose. J’espère finir ma formation, vite, pour commencer un job en cuisine et gagner ma vie !</i>"<br />
<br />
As well as the testimonies of previous trainees, the website also includes the CVs of young people who have recently completed their training. I hope that someone reading this will be able to help one of these recruits find their next job. <br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<div class="fb-like" data-colorscheme="dark" data-font="tahoma" data-href="http://becinbrussels.blogspot.com/2012/04/arpaije.html" data-send="false" data-show-faces="false" data-width="450"></div><br />
<b>Restaurant </b><br />
Open 12:00 - 14:00 Monday to Friday. For reservations call 02 646 21 31.<br />
50 Chaussée de Boondael <br />
1050 Bruxelles <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Siège Social, Cafétéria, Service Traiteur & Service Catering</b><br />
Arpaije asbl<br />
49 rue Malibran<br />
1050 Bruxelles<br />
Tel: 02 644 59 57<br />
<div style="color: #b4a7d6;"><i>contacter@arpaije.be</i></div>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Chaussée de Boondael 50, 1050 Ixelles, Belgium50.826409299999987 4.375656700000035922.750719799999988 -55.389968299999964 78.90209879999999 64.141281700000036tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-14396779295053229082012-04-06T12:20:00.004+02:002012-04-14T00:34:43.974+02:00Psylophone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUthg6wu7BwDkODg0hTfG_7gGJ0F1QyjAERZisD85NgqyNplK_g6WwRi7JMWrvQvvbWrm6y2DxrnAv1joPh3y1O04sGCPhpkJMCqfGUh7GSqEzTSH2Uw_P6nknOxB7UBOz_enlkHjz_r_J/s1600/025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUthg6wu7BwDkODg0hTfG_7gGJ0F1QyjAERZisD85NgqyNplK_g6WwRi7JMWrvQvvbWrm6y2DxrnAv1joPh3y1O04sGCPhpkJMCqfGUh7GSqEzTSH2Uw_P6nknOxB7UBOz_enlkHjz_r_J/s400/025.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Since living in Brussels I've had an inexplicable urge to take bus 95 as far as it can go. Not to the terminus in the centre of town, you understand, but to the other end, way away from the shopping crowds, to places with strange Germanic names like Heiligenborre or Weiner. Then I stopped getting bus 95 so often, and I now have a similar urge with tram number 7. I want to carry on, past my stop, and see where the tram takes me. Preferably the driver will be not one of those that likes alternating violent breaking with violent acceleration, so that I can concentrate on looking out rather than stopping myself falling and crushing the elderly man next to me. And then I'll write about it and share it with you. There's no promise that this experience will be interesting.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXehksEKJfnKJKgQx-2zA28H8ad7kAUPRHououMPxGCBpXpK9la0gF-0DZ16Nbwp35aFRAr7W5FGaBXQquiWhobVeMiQF4N58CcdyyZB1c-5JGyFFLShHgyJoUTmzkADa08Zxik4NCLnAP/s1600/024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXehksEKJfnKJKgQx-2zA28H8ad7kAUPRHououMPxGCBpXpK9la0gF-0DZ16Nbwp35aFRAr7W5FGaBXQquiWhobVeMiQF4N58CcdyyZB1c-5JGyFFLShHgyJoUTmzkADa08Zxik4NCLnAP/s320/024.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>I haven't spent much time in Watermael-Boitsfort, but I have cycled and run through it, on a tour organised by <a href="http://www.provelo.org/agenda_fr.php3" target="_blank">Pro Velo</a> or as I struggled onto the final third of the Brussels 20km. At the time my brain dimly registered that my pounding feet had taken me to somewhere villagey, where people lined the streets and clapped us passing. So it's good to return, on the recommendation of my neighbour, M, and her troupe of tango-dancing friends.<br />
<br />
To get there, we stay on bus 95 for some time, winding our way through calm residential areas, before finally getting off at Fauconnerie. I step off the bus and immediately notice that the air is cleaner out here- I can smell leaves and the approach of Spring. All that is missing is a meadow to run across madly, our arms waving in the air. <br />
<br />
The <i>Psylophone</i> nestles on the corner of a side street, in a real local community. Inside framed photographs show rosy-cheeked residents enjoying themselves at the annual two-day "Fête du Quartier". "It's been going for about 20 years", says the waitress breezily. I'm reassured and instantly at home in this custard-yellow painted hideout, with its tall green plants. I sit on the wooden bench next to the old stove and take in the wooden furniture, the yellowing map of the world on the walls, the small kitchen window at the back where the cooks are at work.... Then my eyes fix on the poster, and everything makes sense. It is a man and a child, in black and white, with the proud headline "Alternative libertaire". Underneath it reads;<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">"Un mensuel différent pour des lecteurs dissident". </blockquote><br />
I'm not quite sure if I'm one of those, but I like to think I am. And this is the ideal place to tuck yourself with a book on a weekday evening (at the moment I'm avidly reading <a href="http://www.foyles.co.uk/item/Fiction-Poetry/The-Help,Kathryn-Stockett-9780241956533" target="_blank">The Help</a>, and I'd like to read it here in the<i> Psylophone</i>, company or no company). I suspect it's very busy later in the week, but on a Tuesday I only have my friend, a couple of staff and a few other customers for company. The staff are friendly but not fussy, and tonight the customers are middle-aged ladies, wearing silver jewellery and scarves and looking like they're just back from a trip to Goa. My exotic adventure to India is still only a half-baked idea in my head. Perhaps next year.<br />
<br />
Anyway, <i>psylos </i>are psychedelic mushrooms, my friend tells me. He's full of useful pieces of information like that, always expanding my French vocabulary. I look sharply over at those plants again, but no, they're just plants.... "Ca fait un peu Guy Debord; mai 68", he muses, and I recall my attempts at reading that Debord pamphlet several months ago before my meeting with <a href="http://becinbrussels.blogspot.com/2011/10/de-dolle-mol.html" target="_blank">Jan Bucquoy</a>. Here I feel welcome, especially when the waitress offers us bottled or <i>tap </i>water. Now, that never happens. The toilets have ancient plumbling and smell faintly of bleach.<br />
<br />
The food is delicious! An eclectic, wide choice of Belgian with <i>cuisine du monde</i>, priced fairly and colourful on your plate. The portions are generous like at <i>La fin de Siècle</i>, but we're missing the background noise. You can have keftas, curries: we had tasty <i>aubergine farcie à la kefta</i> and <i>curry de poulet à l'orange</i>.<br />
<br />
Afterwards I don't really have room for dessert, but we share one anyway. A cinnamony <i>clafoutis à la rhubarbe. </i>My friend knows I am unable to resist any dish with rhubarb or ginger in.....<br />
<br />
Then we slip out, into the chilly night, leaving the staff and their friends to eat together in front of the bar. As the warm beacons fade into the distance, I realise I have found another bar I feel I belong in, that reminds me of the pub where I used to work in the narrow streets of my university city. <br />
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I was in two minds as to whether to write about this place. Because the 95 bus, the <i>Psylophone</i>, and Watermael-Boitsfort, might become my next little retreat. A place where I can escape the city, when I haven't really escaped. So come, by all means, just not all of you at once!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXKhoP2vV2MvaPH4sumaZ4xFxrjkvwnnN-fZYArzWQlhwV_5SnD2Lydkqt3IdzUZwOPHPZhtQQ1lR66VtQjnfvViP9-Lqi6kleBt2k7xhI3lLZwCwtycrjJtEBewETOJ_k5enM7rmcfzc/s1600/035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXKhoP2vV2MvaPH4sumaZ4xFxrjkvwnnN-fZYArzWQlhwV_5SnD2Lydkqt3IdzUZwOPHPZhtQQ1lR66VtQjnfvViP9-Lqi6kleBt2k7xhI3lLZwCwtycrjJtEBewETOJ_k5enM7rmcfzc/s320/035.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">rue de l'Hospice Communale, 90</div><div style="text-align: center;">1170 Watermael-Boitsfort</div><div style="text-align: center;">Brussels</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Take Bus 95 to stop Fauconnerie. Retrace the bus' path about 100 metres and turn left up a small side street.</div>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Rue de l'Hospice Communal 90, 1170 Watermael-Boitsfort, Belgium50.801108199999987 4.420214999999984750.801104699999989 4.420207499999985 50.801111699999986 4.4202224999999844tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-52139334895003191292012-03-17T17:34:00.004+01:002012-03-17T17:50:19.752+01:00Ashok's<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVv7rkAkH9QGcZQXGXGVy2w7ktTVjXBatrKXmXeQcajC-dE-tARM0TMKTHxVDUHvBYtHd58R6gCM3qMfJwHeIXqzOlmVmDxhZ9w1_eLrw1e6-xTQMMMbPj3NMqRqXjquIRL_YpYS3eRDUH/s400/470.JPG" width="400" /></div>Some days nothing can beat a good curry.<br />
<br />
I'm an expat. No matter how absorbed I've become by daily life in my adopted country, no matter how delighted I am by the quality of its restaurants and beer; still the ready availability of baked beans, a pool to swim in, cheddar cheese, custard and curry remain as fundamental to my emotional well-being as they always were. I even have to import the right cheese and beans in order to smother them gratuitously over whatever carbohydrate is to hand - usually a giant jacket potato or toast. "Why?" My Belgian friends ask. At this point it seems important to reassure them that only certain culinary products are lacking; that Belgian beer is far superior to anything flat, warm and English, and that my appreciation for British beery and chocolatey offerings has fallen in proportion to my time spent living in Brussels.<br />
<br />
But my love of real, strong, tangy cheddar has not diminished. Nor has my love of tomatoey baked beans. Not sad, imitation lurid orange red leicester and 1 euro cans of Heinz, with the mini supermarket cashing in wilfully on my need for some "comfort food." No, I resist those.<br />
<br />
So aside from occasionally missing the ready meal aisles at Marks and Spencer, there really isn't much I lack..... Save perhaps for a favourite Indian. I didn't know where to go, until now.<br />
<br />
At the last Indian restaurant I'd tried in Brussels, the chef explained to me with some regret that he was unable to source the fresh spices like his counterparts in the UK. The restaurant was okay, but the naan breads were flat and biscuity, and I reckon I could taste the absence of fresh spices. Old colonial links have their uses!<br />
<br />
Tonight I'm going to a real Indian. Many of the British "Indians" or "curry houses" are actually Bangledeshi, but I'm unsure of my footing where this cuisine is concerned and not sure I'll be able to tell the difference down to each individual dish. I have my favourite dishes, however, and I spend part of my afternoon scanning the menu and deciding what to have.<br />
<br />
Approaching Ashok's it looks rather grand, with dark maroon eyelids obscuring its mysterious windowed eyes. I scout around outside for D, dining companion and fellow curry fan. She must be inside. But first I am met by a dramatic black, semi-circular, full-length entrance curtain, obscuring the interior but banishing the draught outside. Fumbling around for a break in the fabric, I feel like I'm about to make my first tentative debut on stage, or about to emerge and serenade the audience at <i>Chez Maman.</i> Finally there is a hole, and I emerge into the semi-gloom where diners and waiters have been looking at the flailing curtain and now at me. I should bow now. Instead I see my friend and scuttle over to her.<br />
<br />
We're both impressed by the efforts made in interior design. The floor looks wooden and solid and the interior is dim, restrained sobriety in very good taste. Indian cushions in the window, a wooden wine rack taking up the whole length of a wall and crammed with bottles. The music in the background is under-stated but modern. No strange Indo-pop or slightly odd decor from the 1980s. The menus have classy embroidered covers, and the dessert menus, when we get that far, are pasted in Hindi comics, which look a bit like versions of Asterix and Obelix, as far as I can tell. There are plenty of staff around, smiling and attentive. With only a couple of occupied tables besides our own, we never have to wait long.<br />
<br />
Just to be different, and because I can, I try a rose lassi, and D has cardamon. Neither rivals the best mango lassis I've had, but I've never had the choice of rose before. It tastes of sweet rose, perhaps a bit too sweetly, and is probably too pink to be true - pointing to the presence of food colouring. Still, I need to stop myself slurping it down too quickly.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8UQ1fRcj5nvMRK_Av9Gz7tfgEDZco_bH1SZELeRUlfsSn9uJ4bGtjy3w2rmryaZXxobnYSPdQAD_jHfrS9jPjDz3igvFYkXDze5HmRyuUxfl2K2RvWFeEBve34gfUE6pfyitiAKR_eBX/s1600/460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8UQ1fRcj5nvMRK_Av9Gz7tfgEDZco_bH1SZELeRUlfsSn9uJ4bGtjy3w2rmryaZXxobnYSPdQAD_jHfrS9jPjDz3igvFYkXDze5HmRyuUxfl2K2RvWFeEBve34gfUE6pfyitiAKR_eBX/s320/460.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>We decide on the 25 per person tasting menu as a good starting point, and I'm not about to admit that I've spent most of my afternoon debating, and eventually deciding, I would have fish moli. I've never had fish in an Indian - and I consult housemates and my Mum over this, because I am determined to choose something good. Never mind. When the food arrives probably my face betrays me - I am dismayed by the quantity. The serving dishes have decorative flourishes to their stainless steel, but this does not disguise the fact that the rice we've been given is less than the size of one portion in an UK restaurant. Given the fact that we only have three sauces (one lamb, one chicken and one Indian cheese) with our rice and naan bread this strikes me as a bit steep. Yes, we probably should have gone à la carte. Another slightly odd thing: with each dish you are asked to specify whether you'd like it mild, medium or hot. I thought this was always something associated with the dish: imagine a hot chicken tikka masala - cum vindaloo! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_JsiJwNmedJhyphenhyphen-TKApleR1-vEqPrsJzVIpXHpo3tCmrrXZu-e2G9c9bu886d9VCS9tqHu0gmyB-d3Sp4MPkO7xRrklEqK38PZan34elRMOIW3Dq5zdQcjTr6y8_Ak50vvqnChMakftSm/s1600/462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_JsiJwNmedJhyphenhyphen-TKApleR1-vEqPrsJzVIpXHpo3tCmrrXZu-e2G9c9bu886d9VCS9tqHu0gmyB-d3Sp4MPkO7xRrklEqK38PZan34elRMOIW3Dq5zdQcjTr6y8_Ak50vvqnChMakftSm/s320/462.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Despite my initial disappointment at the amount of food, it was deliciously tasty, with plenty of tender meat chunks in the rich sauce. The naans were crispy and did not fill your sides with a dull, doughy ache. When we ask what we're eating the cook himself appears, in his imposing, white-hatted finery. I understood almost nothing of what he said, but I did glean that we were eating a special Indian cheese and, when he had gone, I sketched him covertly under the table. The waiters come over periodically to check that everything is up to standard. When I mention liking the naan, they look anxious; "But which one is better: this one or the UK one?" Anyone who claims to know anything about a good curry: note that the British curry is held in high esteem in Brussels.<br />
<br />
We didn't manage to eat everything. <br />
<br />
Our meal is rounded off by gulab jamun and some (cardamon) ice cream. Which are delicious. Someone once tried to make these sweet doughy balls at home for me (in the house with the dodgy wiring that rattled), but now, several years later, I know finally what they are meant to taste like.<br />
<br />
Everything was going so well until the bill. It seemed a bit high.... Only afterwards we realised that we'd been charged separately for the desserts which should have been covered under the menu charge. A small mistake, which meant our meal cost more than it should have done, the price of a main course. All in all, I'll give the menu a miss next time and go off piste. The food is highly recommended, but Indian food in Brussels is not the cheaper option it is generally assumed to be in Britain.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, too full to sleep, D and I went for a stroll. It was certainly the best tasting Indian I've had in Brussels, with plenty on the menu to tempt me back. <br />
<br />
Let me know what you have and what you think. And if you've a favourite Indian you would recommend, then don't keep it secret: tell us about it!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
http://ashoks.be/Ashoks_Brussels_menu.html<br />
192, Chaussée de Vleurgat<br />
1000 BrusselsBecinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com2Chaussée de Vleurgat 192, 1000 City of Brussels, Belgium50.8216269 4.366841499999964122.7434999 -55.398783500000036 78.8997539 64.132466499999964tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-45448454935571960462012-03-03T14:38:00.011+01:002012-03-03T15:24:17.619+01:00Le Corbeau<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIRpZdwjIf_JWucLAxuvVqvGzR_3cjBQWXxfAj54MVdlBzFU0Vkt_flv3oMh_VXYJJJD15sNDaiow4qWV18s1ycGMjgcq7p9GqTNsmf2fBVXrkYoidRGVhMuz2yDyl8UQG5QSFR-6VCxEv/s1600/019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIRpZdwjIf_JWucLAxuvVqvGzR_3cjBQWXxfAj54MVdlBzFU0Vkt_flv3oMh_VXYJJJD15sNDaiow4qWV18s1ycGMjgcq7p9GqTNsmf2fBVXrkYoidRGVhMuz2yDyl8UQG5QSFR-6VCxEv/s320/019.JPG" width="320" /></a>I've missed you, blog. For whatever I have been doing these last couple of weeks hasn't been nearly as fun as wandering, bar visiting and eating. This morning I went for a run. Blogging is like running, I thought, as I ran round in circles: the longer you stay away from it the harder it is to begin again. But carrying on is much better than slipping backwards! Coming soon: some articles on bars in Saint-Gilles.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv6h3Z7bjKabTp4azKkep6JaUqj7b_h3OHyh1JJW9BYk-oBEc7rUQu4zci3Kh7x7nW_of-LxohyphenhyphendeznXrZHqkULxZp5nrzWEIA96PM9aDg0DN8zEYQpWAHySI1Y3YKfQT5mfH6J9bErEhX/s1600/015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv6h3Z7bjKabTp4azKkep6JaUqj7b_h3OHyh1JJW9BYk-oBEc7rUQu4zci3Kh7x7nW_of-LxohyphenhyphendeznXrZHqkULxZp5nrzWEIA96PM9aDg0DN8zEYQpWAHySI1Y3YKfQT5mfH6J9bErEhX/s320/015.JPG" width="320" /></a>I have Professor Nakanba to thank for the theme of today's article. I came home to find him there, neatly cut to size in my letter box. "Whatever your problem, contact the Grand Voyant Medium Astrologue", said the note. I read on, intrigued. Now what, I thought, is a <i>maladie inconnue? </i>I thought a bit longer, and then I came up with one!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoBbq2NsbSoCpjTrrYpIZ1Aded8M1lgBzhPVgHzTHJzKoavV5AbxkyI_F-JYaey-SoYDEFkSHVlwEL7bgiYi6Xae34rBClsHlpawlLx5_7UPMC9vG9qyFgMn2_nfnQ1Be-wHsBOMTcnXT3/s1600/038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoBbq2NsbSoCpjTrrYpIZ1Aded8M1lgBzhPVgHzTHJzKoavV5AbxkyI_F-JYaey-SoYDEFkSHVlwEL7bgiYi6Xae34rBClsHlpawlLx5_7UPMC9vG9qyFgMn2_nfnQ1Be-wHsBOMTcnXT3/s320/038.JPG" width="320" /></a>Several weeks ago we were planning to go out of an evening. This "we" is myself and some girlfriends. We sent emails and text messages and might even have deployed facebook. So far, so normal. Or was it? Fixing up this one evening took two weeks of hesitations and negotiations, and when finally the long-awaited day came around a month later I felt deflated, cheated, I wasn't even sure I wanted to go. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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Right. But I did go, and when everyone turned up we ate and drank and I could almost forget the amount of effort it had taken to organise. And then one of my friends said; "we're going to <i>Le Corbeau</i>, wanna come?" Yes, I said, <i>almost </i>without thinking at all.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">You see, past the grey frontage and the bulky black-suited hulk guarding the entrance this is a bar where we are - or for a couple of hours can at least pretend to be - spontaneous. Because on a Friday or Saturday at a quarter to Midnight people get up on the tables and dance on them, without apparently agreeing anything amongst themselves at all. No emails, no text messages, no facebook. Just one look, and they clamber up and dance, pretty un - self-consciously. You can almost pretend that you're that first group of people climbing on to the table podium for the first time, waving arms and shunting bottoms and making amused eye contact with all around, conscious of doing something a little out of the ordinary! Yes, I'm here, <i>so what</i>, the raven is unperturbed<i>.</i> No matter that this is now replayed every week in <i>Le Corbeau</i>, and the bar is doing very nicely out of it thank you very much, with men expected to grease the palm of the doorman on the way out (or so I'm told). We can all shuffle a bit one way on tables, the music egging us on, making us believe that we can also do it, we can be spontaneous! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So come to <i>Le Corbeau</i>, please. Take a friend, a jacket, twenty euros, no more. Come of a night where you feel flat and need a lift. Drink just enough to avoid a squeeze through to the toilet (singular). Call more friends; give them a couple of hours to get here. If you're at a stage in life where partners need to be consulted, a babysitter arranged and dinner prepared before you can even think about it, then you've either arrived or something - that S word again - has been left behind.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">As for me, I'm not prepared to give up hope of spontaneity. Not yet! Dancing on tables is not just for students. </div><br />
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<i>Spontaneity on tap. Every Friday and Saturday like clockwork it comes back.</i><br />
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<div class="fb-like" data-colorscheme="dark" data-font="tahoma" data-href="http://becinbrussels.blogspot.com/2012/03/le-corbeau.html" data-send="false" data-show-faces="false" data-width="450"></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">18, rue St. Michel</div><div style="text-align: center;">1000 Brussels</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="Info"> 02 219 52 46</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">http://www.lecorbeau.be/</div>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Rue Saint-Michel 18, 1000 City of Brussels, Belgium50.852301 4.354469999999992122.789810499999998 -55.411155000000008 78.914791499999993 64.120094999999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-49252766717116960442012-02-20T13:32:00.004+01:002012-02-20T13:54:44.268+01:00Frederic Blondeel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFbF_sT9TrlSLq7Zfp4pn_DXxtDaex2EoOYnAhNEKysnaaPXaRy8_7J9o-Cw-sIgDmzaU7mg7f6KwTK6hgHiFnrJwY2AWPHN9a5pDhWOIp8HABHHHwNpvRCTH-ZJDcU4LM5oVtZACPsP4/s1600/057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnV9qt1bfvVtfbXgY7iN0fOclaE5CI5NTuW9SwAUw6CZY84VBx_SUKzFyp5hI2jHPrOERcha34zG6tVECqddpaGK8ERFH6xXgzCJm1NZSzeB3Ti2-4j6kdH5kLV4FziXrSUefEJgFj6nh/s640/florida+2011+151.JPG" width="640" /></div>I know what you're thinking: lucky Bec, living in Belgium. I bet you buy sachets of chocolates whenever you want to, and slip them into your bag to eat surreptitiously at the bus shelter or at your desk. But no, I protest, that's simply not true - cue the sympathy violin! The only time Bec visits chocolatiers is to buy presents for others or to show others where to buy chocolates for others. It seems a bit mean to buy just for yourself! The best Belgian chocolates need to be savoured and shared, drawn delicately into your mouth so you can linger over the filling. Often the shops don't even bother slipping a card in the box to identify what you've bought. This encourages you to take your time to work it out for yourself. Now, is that basil, thyme, earl grey or rose?<br />
<br />
I realised I was beginning to appreciate chocolate, perhaps even to become a connoisseur, when I opened the door of <a href="http://fr-fr.facebook.com/pages/Chocolatier-Vandenhende-English-version/108657689170149">Chocolatier Vandenhende</a> up in La Chasse, where the scent of cocoa nearly sent me into a swoon (and then later his fondant au chocolat was praised by anyone I allowed near it.) And when I first got my hands on a cup of molten chocolate in Frederic Blondeel's shop. There are dégustation tables for sampling the various hot chocolates, including the eye-watering Fredericisme; and ice cream creations (including "Belgian Sunshine"); and shelves stocked with rich pastes and jams (think the Charles-Louis raspberry dark chocolate spread: honestly, who could return to Nutella after this?) J'am jam indeed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtN72d4YRKIEosPgytHsLlwRIgdg8d0-PUqSr1hm-cWlBZ0KjMsoL1F2rlku8eCAEys1jdj9eWfN6iTIVrAuyT1zzHKoDy9Wn2xuNQIJnm2c0GVYxDeZM_O3QOiVFAXfsDS1hYTq6DqnKC/s1600/florida+2011+150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtN72d4YRKIEosPgytHsLlwRIgdg8d0-PUqSr1hm-cWlBZ0KjMsoL1F2rlku8eCAEys1jdj9eWfN6iTIVrAuyT1zzHKoDy9Wn2xuNQIJnm2c0GVYxDeZM_O3QOiVFAXfsDS1hYTq6DqnKC/s400/florida+2011+150.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
So I think this is it: my favourite chocolatier in Brussels! And I like Frederic because he's down to earth: works hard and doesn't have time to spend fretting over precise temperature cooling when his kids are also busy helping out in the kitchen or at the counter.<br />
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On my first visit I requisition a spare hot chocolate that a departing tour group have carelessly left behind. I try to explain myself, but the owner says "vous avez raison!" I ask him what he is most proud of in here. "My children", he says mischievously. This is a chocolatier not chasing prizes and not taking it all too seriously.<br />
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You can (and I do) spend a lot of money in here. Last weekend I came for the chocolate counter, intending to choose and prepared to wait. Alive to the importance of letting his customers choose every chocolate that goes into their 1 or 2 or 5 layered boxes, Frederic doesn't rush us. Instead he brings out small cups of hot chocolate to thank us for being patient.<br />
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Recipients of my Blondeel ballotins understand why this is my favourite. Sophisticated combinations: caramel and fleur de sel, basil, thyme, oranges and lemons, rose, truffles. Plenty of choice for those of us less keen on nutty ganaches and spirit-soaked centres (though he has these as well). This week there's a new addition on the counter: "Would you like to try?" asks Frederic. I pop a chocolate with melting rose caramel in my mouth. It's divine; words tumble out in praise. Frederic seems warmed by this. He's here in his shop and he cares what we think. And he's certainly working hard. You know, next time I'm going to buy some of those caramels just for me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFbF_sT9TrlSLq7Zfp4pn_DXxtDaex2EoOYnAhNEKysnaaPXaRy8_7J9o-Cw-sIgDmzaU7mg7f6KwTK6hgHiFnrJwY2AWPHN9a5pDhWOIp8HABHHHwNpvRCTH-ZJDcU4LM5oVtZACPsP4/s1600/057.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFbF_sT9TrlSLq7Zfp4pn_DXxtDaex2EoOYnAhNEKysnaaPXaRy8_7J9o-Cw-sIgDmzaU7mg7f6KwTK6hgHiFnrJwY2AWPHN9a5pDhWOIp8HABHHHwNpvRCTH-ZJDcU4LM5oVtZACPsP4/s320/057.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Quai aux Briques 24,</div><div style="text-align: center;">1000 Brussels</div><div style="text-align: center;">+32 (0)2 502 21 31</div><div style="text-align: center;">http://www.frederic-blondeel.com/<br />
<br />
Open Sunday to Friday 13:00 to 18:45<br />
Saturday 10:30 to 18:45<br />
The tea room closes slightly earlier.</div><fb:like colorscheme="dark" font="tahoma" href="http://becinbrussels.blogspot.com/2012/02/frederic-bloondeel.html" send="false" show_faces="false" width="450"></fb:like>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Quai aux Briques 24, 1000 City of Brussels, Belgium50.8515229 4.347970199999963422.7886359 -55.417654800000037 78.9144099 64.113595199999963tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-41507997292685022612012-02-12T16:11:00.005+01:002012-02-16T21:38:53.435+01:00Maxburg<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUWVpTOFR7D5_4WeYJJTHxMwzI12sAV2dBKD64tLfR0LJafjc3CJaErjvuMM94CiooKV34NOgMRMQIYUV83_3YWAA7jjUnCrcZ4Ntf7EWhCn3gRJvF3bUZ6vkZ0fvqFZ-Kgrfd5YMWPlA/s1600/019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUWVpTOFR7D5_4WeYJJTHxMwzI12sAV2dBKD64tLfR0LJafjc3CJaErjvuMM94CiooKV34NOgMRMQIYUV83_3YWAA7jjUnCrcZ4Ntf7EWhCn3gRJvF3bUZ6vkZ0fvqFZ-Kgrfd5YMWPlA/s400/019.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>So far in Brussels I must have eaten Italian, Vietnamese, French, Thai, Japanese, Spanish, Belgian, American, Portuguese - and probably trendy fusions of all of the above. But what to eat on a freezing February day, when I'm meeting my new conversation partner for dinner? Well, German of course.<br />
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It surprised me to learn that there are very few German restaurants in Brussels. The one in my neighbourhood seems to have closed down. <i>The </i>German restaurant that people know of, the one that Colin Powell and Joshua Fischer visited, is the <i>Maxburg</i>, in Schuman. Understandably the German owners are still rather proud of that.<br />
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From the outside the bar is white-washed and looks German enough. Inside there are roughly painted white walls, and people (Commission folk, probably) are even speaking German. I take my place at the bar next to a guy with a pony tail and a leather waistcoat. He looks like he's been parachuted in from a bar in deepest Bavaria. But he is the only one. The others have had any national appearance traits morphed into a generic style: the Eurocrat! How many Germans are there here really? I cannot tell. Anyway, ponytail man looks me up and down approvingly and raises his glass. Perhaps he thinks I'm German too? <br />
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I order a Bitburger (on tap), but the server doesn't understand my German, and answers in English. My German conversation partner arrives and we take our place upstairs to look down over assorted people watching Stuttgart play Bayern Munich. It takes a long time for the server to remember us, and we try and summon him using the languages at our disposal. Finally we discover that he prefers French.<br />
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<img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjip9pU5B1-66LApeCPTY_f9rYBakObRM4COEq8avsIQUSm6wD_6T4eVw01HeCEtA4G1ux0yyn-SgabIMbsKTm9DFpkdGlZeYUI1d77mMXl98TG9mezOznZ7WLMCAKlU36AWzj8EZpkznw/s320/023.JPG" width="320" /><br />
And so, the Maxburg turns out to be a not-so-German German bar! This probably makes it a really typical Brussels restaurant experience, because whatever cuisine you are eating, you can get by with speaking English or French. There really was no need for me to dust off my German and inflict it on anybody. What a truly international city this is!<br />
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Still, there is plenty of time to talk while the servers forget us again. I'm happy to find a German friend who doesn't speak English so perfectly that I am ashamed to utter a single word of his mother tongue in his presence. And he is from near Dresden, a city I visited on a solo inter-railing trip in 2004. Our conversation covers football vocabulary, the German for red and white cabbage (rot und wei<span class="st">ß Kraut, predictably!), German political parties and fairy tales, and the fact that Nigel Farage memorably called Herman Van Rompuy a </span><i>nasser Waschlappen </i>(a damp facecloth).....<br />
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Despite the indifferent, lazy service, the food when it arrives is just what we needed: meat in a rich sauce with bratkartoffeln and kraut. I have Rinderroulade and my friend has hausgemachter Rindergullasch; the former being a beef roll and the latter a German version of the carbonnade. Both are apparently eaten in the Dresden area. I'm interested enough to know I'll return another cold day for Thuringer sausages or to try one of the long list of Schnitzel on the menu. And did I say that there is a shop next door selling German products?<br />
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<i>Bitte ein Bit.</i><br />
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<i> </i> <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">rue Stevin 108<br />
1000 Brussels <br />
http://www.maxburgbrussels.be/Willkommen.html</div>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Rue Stevin 108, 1000 City of Brussels, Belgium50.8448898 4.38062549999995122.778620299999996 -55.384999500000049 78.9111593 64.146250499999951tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-80039473024355178652012-01-30T12:56:00.004+01:002012-02-16T21:35:22.344+01:00Cool Bun<div class="separator" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOLEfvEwDaeNzbzLER8TkUzzkOZfXGoDNbelkNHKOkdF-SxHmoCo-jfY22OUvyYd_vbTc4dw4293ErmJ1H_EAiFXpHyWvtfmGFqMdB4qJruW2YB_e1xfxyRJbIQ_E45Lg9AKo9uxWXzie/s400/003.JPG" width="400" /></div>I don't normally eat burgers at lunch time. Especially when I only have an hour or so to spare and cannot sink into a carb-induced slumber in the afternoon. But who could resist the allure of <i>Cool Bun</i>, newly opened in the Schuman area, especially after reading praise from fellow bloggers about its sister restaurant? Well you know me well enough by now: I couldn't!<br />
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We haven't reserved, but this is no problem for the waitress: we're met with a smile rather than a pained frown. Hurrah!<br />
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The menu offers burgers as varied in flavours as they are in price - from regular with cheese to gourmet, sexy burgers at 24 or 26 euro each. Prices match what you'd pay for a very good steak, so these burgers had better be good! Now, should we opt for the <i>richesse</i> of a foie gras burger with girolles mushrooms, as suggested by the blackboard? Or one with roquefort, or chanterelle mushrooms? I've finally finished a translation of a gourmet French food products website, and am aware of all the exciting mushrooms out there! I only hope I will do them all justice....<br />
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Mushrooms aside, today is not the day to spend 80 euro on a hurried lunch, and so I - we- resist. We decide on a apple jack burger (15 euro) nd I order a mini trio (19 euro) to test a few (with sea bass, apple jack and onglet). So back comes the smiling waitress to take our order:<br />
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What <i>cuisson </i>for our burger? Mild or spicy sauce for the apple jack? And what type of cheese? A few minutes later she scurries back, having forgotten to ask if we'd like a special spicy mayonnaise in place of regular ketchup.<br />
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"C'est beaucoup de choix pour un burger," observes my companion.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0cTBkMlb_02XocgjYCfDAkYgKsNGnN1OMSyqfRugfueMUJWOYMxItsDrLBNeciEJSVfXIGczXq2-EjP5XeP5wnGN1auUM3yao-_EEMSgjBBZb10PKhzVgHmhoY6h9lMhZBvM_lkAQ2qK/s1600/002.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0cTBkMlb_02XocgjYCfDAkYgKsNGnN1OMSyqfRugfueMUJWOYMxItsDrLBNeciEJSVfXIGczXq2-EjP5XeP5wnGN1auUM3yao-_EEMSgjBBZb10PKhzVgHmhoY6h9lMhZBvM_lkAQ2qK/s400/002.JPG" width="400" /></a> When they arrive the burgers are visually impressive. The presentation and <i>cuisson</i> are all right, and we get our ketchup. It is the apple jack burger that looks the best: a tower of textures and colours with enormous, obviously home made onion rings perched precariously on top, all golden and misshapen and glorious. Ah, those onion rings are delicious! Crispy and golden with beery batter. I admit to craving a fast food burger about once a year, but after tasting these, will I ever be able to order fast food onion rings again? How could I? The chips are delicious too, all golden and different shapes and sizes and mine in a separate cone. I think these are the best chips I've eaten in my burger contest so far. <i>Cool Bun</i>, you're doing very well and we're only at the carbohydrate analysis stage...<br />
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My burgers are three mini burgers in a row. Each tiny specimen is beautifully presented and unique. Sundried tomato peeks out of one, and I wonder how everything stays together. I feel slightly envious of the proper fat burger sitting opposite me, but eating this is fiddly and different and I'm obliged to use knife and fork. I have my own cone of chips and a side plate of well-dressed salad. The meat is cooked perfectly. It is only the slightly precarious position of the burgers on my thin boat-bottomed plate that stops me eating everything too fast. A good thing, for these burgers are made to be savoured, and if I apply pressure in the wrong place then I fear the plate will propel everything into my lap, like a seesaw. Tellingly when we've finished, it is only my side of the table that has been dirtied.<br />
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I stay happy and full until well into the evening. And after we slip out, the waitress sticks her head round the door to say thank you and goodbye. <br />
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<i>Becinbrussels tried mini burgers for a change, but don't let her try and convince you that this is a lighter choice. For now, Cool Bun, you are one of her favourite burger choices. She certainly adores your chips and the precise cooking of your burgers. But how to compare a burger that costs 24 euro with one that costs 10 or 15? In Brussels the humble burger is going places. This is going to require some careful thought....</i><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">http://www.cool-bun.be/<br />
rue Stevin 168<br />
1000 Brussels </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0cTBkMlb_02XocgjYCfDAkYgKsNGnN1OMSyqfRugfueMUJWOYMxItsDrLBNeciEJSVfXIGczXq2-EjP5XeP5wnGN1auUM3yao-_EEMSgjBBZb10PKhzVgHmhoY6h9lMhZBvM_lkAQ2qK/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWBQYGsOo0oH4yjO_7k88r9ad19JSPz7xt8WeP8uJzASQjJueH11K3UaFgoclqY3VBLaGlEaniZlFLX-39olk0y5G65zavE74Ce6qNLCFIE_X78Z-hxk1MpC9mkovFBQW2AMSa7u7QEDfJ/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWBQYGsOo0oH4yjO_7k88r9ad19JSPz7xt8WeP8uJzASQjJueH11K3UaFgoclqY3VBLaGlEaniZlFLX-39olk0y5G65zavE74Ce6qNLCFIE_X78Z-hxk1MpC9mkovFBQW2AMSa7u7QEDfJ/s320/004.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com3Rue Stevin 168, 1000 City of Brussels, Belgium50.844318 4.383532100000024922.777757 -55.382092899999975 78.910879 64.149157100000025tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-11890524853522214892012-01-21T13:44:00.005+01:002013-01-19T01:09:57.376+01:00Centro Cabraliego de Bruselas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In a previous post I complained of attending Spanish conversation tables and feeling tongue-tied. Happily recent events suggest that I am getting better (though I must add I have a Spanish oral exam on Tuesday and my progress has not yet been subject to expert evaluation!) Last night Spanish was all around me, and I even managed to speak some, in a Spanish bar, cultural and community centre. My second visit in a week: I only wish I'd discovered this place before. One thing I did learn, I still struggle with numbers. Twenty years ago, when <i>Centro Cabraliego de Bruselas </i>opened, there were not many Spanish bars in Brussels. Now there are 250 (can that be right?) And that competition-conquering-cabrales-cheese in the photo on the wall is worth 2500 euros (really?!) Straining to catch numbers and interesting soundbites from the hosts, asking questions in halting Spanish with a few words of French thrown in for good measure.... Yes, readers, I suggest you take everything you read here (especially in relation to numbers) with a pinch of salt. That's until I can count to 2500 properly.<br />
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In keeping with the hordes of young Spaniards and older ones grouped around the bar, I and my French and Belgian companions tried to join in. The result was sometimes confusing, leading to a lot of <i>hein?, eh? </i>and <i>you what, quoi?!</i> Great preparation for an oral exam though, this, as we ate greasy-fingered, drank and pestered our busy hosts with a question here and there. The people working here are all volunteers, and you can see photos of several of the founders on the website, including my favourite (exceedingly patient) man in glasses. The centre is heaving; so no wonder it is only open Friday to Sunday. Any more and it would not be possible to cope.<br />
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Where else in Brussels can you get <i>cerveza </i>for 1 euro? And a gin and tonic for 3 euros? I suspect there may be some subsidy at work here, or probably it is just that the Centro is run as a social enterprise, not for hard-nosed profits. I think there may have been mention of subsidy, but I missed it in the soup of chatter and laughter and very jolly accordion music in the background. As far as I can tell, the name <i>cabraliego </i>is a reference to a small village community near the Picos mountains in the Asturias: homage to the handful of villages permitted to produce the famed blue cabrales cheese. <br />
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<i>3000 euros? Actually, we may have the numbers right. "Cheese: it's a way of life", says one contestant in the annual August Cheese festival. I even spotted one of our friendly volunteers from the Cabraliego on stage (one of the contestants, or judges?)</i></div>
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Before you proceed into the long depths of the venue in search of a table, it's worth pausing at the bar, bedecked with plastic bunting flags of the Asturias region. You could be in Spain here, really. Older men linger around the bar, and the walls bear photos of proud cheese-clutching Asturians. Proceed a little further and you're really in rural Asturia, with a wall of black and white photos of farming landscapes and wood-mounted coats of arms. But it keeps going: continue through to the Asturian community centre, all rows of tables, plastic chairs, and happy people.<br />
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Find a space wherever you can. And order tapas from the kitchen bar right at the back. Generous plates arrive of<i> jam<span class="st"><i>ó</i></span>n</i>, and <i>calamares</i> - no, surely not tapas these, but a <span class="st"><i>ración! </i>Sticky tables, sticky hands. One of the volunteers explains how our neighbours are pouring Asturian cider from a height to "get the air into it". </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="st">Of course tapas is not usually a cheap option for eating out in Brussels, but tapas bars are growing in number and seem to becoming a gourmet choice. I was in one the other week with exotic meat on the menu and a pianist accompanying our meal with Chopin. But for authenticity, atmosphere and finger-licking tastiness - and principle - Cabraliego, you win. You give Asturians, Spaniards and others with an interest in Spanish culture a place to go.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Take me there! Please.</td></tr>
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<span class="st"><i> </i></span><span class="st">First time round 5 of us ate and drank for 11 euros a person. Second time round, trois, it was 15 euros. Third time, seven of us demolished everything on the menu and three bottles of rioja, leaving nothing but a pile of bones behind. For 21 euros each: you can't argue with that.</span><br />
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<span class="st">rue Haute 171</span><br />
<span class="st">1000 Brussels</span><br />
<span class="st">+32 (0)2 511 05 59 </span><br />
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<fb:like colorscheme="dark" font="tahoma" href="http://becinbrussels.blogspot.com/2012/01/centro-cabraliego-de-bruselas.html" send="false" show_faces="false" width="450"></fb:like>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Rue Haute 171, 1000 City of Brussels, Belgium50.8379697 4.349345599999992422.768172200000002 -55.416279400000008 78.9077672 64.114970599999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-26146922943805334952012-01-08T13:47:00.006+01:002012-01-11T20:52:23.815+01:00Le Pantin<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITpp1o17Fht7LEFD9_X0vcFLzsiE9FtKglDJBh-6f08iu8DgsGW6arKT-kZwmP3xmVgyYOkftHoLJqB1mfYXKkPAvdxDrCCPv3z7Xz4jjOshDQfkmtkGJLvgco8mZY93lGQjE4xBpAsGz/s1600/027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITpp1o17Fht7LEFD9_X0vcFLzsiE9FtKglDJBh-6f08iu8DgsGW6arKT-kZwmP3xmVgyYOkftHoLJqB1mfYXKkPAvdxDrCCPv3z7Xz4jjOshDQfkmtkGJLvgco8mZY93lGQjE4xBpAsGz/s320/027.JPG" width="320" /></a>Happy New Year!<br />
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I didn't venture far for my first outing of 2012. Another of my favourite local bars, <i>Le Pantin, </i>has been given more than just a lick of paint in recent months. It used to be a place that you'd pass in the middle of the day or late at night and a couple of people would be sitting playing chess in the window next to a flickering candle trailing tendrils of wax. I was dismayed to see the place boarded up following the introduction of the smoking ban, but luckily <i>Le Pantin</i> is resurrected! It is now less gloomy inside, and there is a new upstairs mezzanine cosy seating area, but otherwise nothing important has changed. Drinkers sit happily amongst clown pictures, sketches, bookshelves and chess boards, and there are some wooden farmyard (Ark?) animals perched above the bar. Hats, rings, scarves and beards abound, and there's a fuzzy, buzzy, Bohemian atmosphere: rather different from the cool beats and din of <i>Café Belga</i>. Rather, here's a place to while an evening away, very contentedly.<br />
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You could always learn chess. It's a new year, high time to develop some new skills, and so I begin. The rules were explained to me some years ago but need to be explained again. I am tentative. I can almost feel my brain struggling to predict several moves in advance while I try to recall which piece can move where. I may be a beginner, but I don't want to look like a fool. Then, I manage to cobble together a two-move plan and there is a moment of success! I take my opponent's Queen. I am so proud of myself that I refuse to let him re-play his move, and he retaliates by refusing to offer me advice for the remainder of the game. Soon afterwards it is Check-Mate, and I lose. But I leave the bar more alert than I would otherwise have been. I am a beginner, I don't mind losing this time.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"> <i>"C'est un jeu diabolique!"</i></div><br />
I should add that <i>Le Pantin </i>has a <u>very</u> extensive beer list. New Year, new beer! I chose a <i>Duchesse de Bourgogne</i> brune, which is slightly acidic, reminding me of a Gueuze, but without the fizz. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsS4gz0VL7EaLxprq6qSUh7UtwktrQIQ4H2R-RD8zUmC7IxDHTKI4HWQzKSt03oUt_dwoW3wHCygGAFM-Xpaq028d1HP3v0t3lL-uKDYP-UJSmfLHxL8eZscfGfvIye45mNv1icE6S13E/s1600/025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsS4gz0VL7EaLxprq6qSUh7UtwktrQIQ4H2R-RD8zUmC7IxDHTKI4HWQzKSt03oUt_dwoW3wHCygGAFM-Xpaq028d1HP3v0t3lL-uKDYP-UJSmfLHxL8eZscfGfvIye45mNv1icE6S13E/s320/025.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com2Chaussée d'Ixelles 355, 1050 Ixelles, Belgium50.8281035 4.371161400000005422.753276999999997 -55.394463599999995 78.90293 64.1367864tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5693629075838653853.post-81214159898673291992011-12-20T19:19:00.008+01:002011-12-22T01:03:00.474+01:00Pierre Marcolini<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjfj1dMOI5wWhlJJR49EBDEfd5vxLhJ4nOcLniBThx2GsCS25IURo0iNllgbDWXtoSda0jMVasuVEz0Kun3lpq_Ux858U1_ywMeeAVMNHo7igTB79erhfzbIDT_15P3y6315eIBXwlhP_2/s1600/192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjfj1dMOI5wWhlJJR49EBDEfd5vxLhJ4nOcLniBThx2GsCS25IURo0iNllgbDWXtoSda0jMVasuVEz0Kun3lpq_Ux858U1_ywMeeAVMNHo7igTB79erhfzbIDT_15P3y6315eIBXwlhP_2/s640/192.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Entering this temperature-controlled mausoleum of chocolate you could be pushing open the heavy doors of a Louis Vuitton flagship store, to be met by staff in their livery and a feature chandelier. It is intimidating. Well, it <i>would </i>be if it weren't so full of people like you and me, shuffling around in trains, no poodles or fur coats in sight; everyone is just trying to keep out of each other's way.<br />
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Imagine, if you will, a shop that is trying to conserve a certain hauteur, an image of its own exclusivity. Delvaux-designed presentation boxes, chocolates and desserts arranged behind glass like jewels, assistants in white gloves fingering delicate creations, but tourists steaming up the glass and irritating girls with their cameras keep ruining it for them. Sigh. But the staff cope with all this admirably well. The tills keep ringing, and there are larger, cheaper selections upstairs too. My guess is they could teach Louis Vuitton a thing or two.<br />
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So imagine my amusement when a power cut sends staff scuttling around, and customers are suddenly deliberating shades of dark chocolate - in the dark. After a brief interlude a switch is tripped and the lights and chiller cabinets are working again. But the spell of perfection has been broken. The staff re-arrange their customary smiles (it's too busy to do otherwise): it's OK, the chocolates only lost their lifeline of cool air for a few minutes, all will be well. But then, it happens again! The humming stops and anxiety once again plays across faces.<br />
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I've just visited around five chocolate shops in one day (for research purposes), and as all this is going on I remember the advised temperature range for storing chocolates - between 15 and 18 degrees - so says the brochure for Mary Chocolatier. Now this is a really unhelpful temperature range, I think: too cool for room temperature and too warm for a fridge....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgped277TJNTyfH5A7lnH-xC8ckDwNg8Ep6WJ7s4aJ1oMNRMGB492_qCjfyT7CqEM3W71fz623ZNuP9LCZhJobpl7nBk0V5vC72qTxUONNqnfKA20zsTnqUBcxBEOKp3tTBx1cgO8-XXEgh/s1600/190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgped277TJNTyfH5A7lnH-xC8ckDwNg8Ep6WJ7s4aJ1oMNRMGB492_qCjfyT7CqEM3W71fz623ZNuP9LCZhJobpl7nBk0V5vC72qTxUONNqnfKA20zsTnqUBcxBEOKp3tTBx1cgO8-XXEgh/s320/190.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
In truth it's too crowded here to really feel comfortable, whatever the temperature. I want to ask more about Pierre and his chocolates, but I'm put off by the card thrust into my hand: I don't want to call someone in VIP relations..... All I'd get is some pre-packaged saccharine tale, and it won't be the man himself! I'm beginning to feel that Pierre is just too swish to be my preferred chocolatier...<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">Upstairs there is plenty of choice - from the 54 EUR mummified truffle teddy bears grinning inanely (I wouldn't like to be shut in here with them at night!) to sleek black selection boxes (around 25 EUR), marzipan fruits, and 7 EUR tablets for those who can't decide what to buy. A discovery or voyage (découverte or voyage) box would seem a very good place to start.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I say it is hard to find presentation as good as this. And the chocolates are delicate and refined and delicious. They taste expensive and they are! You should definitely stop by, but don't end your chocolate explorations here. There are plenty more chocolatey offerings to sample once you leave this rather chilly mausoleum behind. And only you can decide who is worthy of your crown of <i>Best Chocolatier in Brussels!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You can also watch this space to find out mine.<i> </i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"></div><fb:like colorscheme="dark" font="tahoma" href="http://becinbrussels.blogspot.com/2011/12/pierre-marcolini.html" send="false" show_faces="false" width="450"></fb:like>Becinbrusselshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14186953118350576845noreply@blogger.com0Rue des Minimes 1, 1000 City of Brussels, Belgium50.8412724 4.353634599999963922.773158900000002 -55.411990400000036 78.9093859 64.119259599999964