Pierre Marcolini

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 would 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.

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.

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.

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....

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...

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.

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 Best Chocolatier in Brussels!

You can also watch this space to find out mine.

Oase

Much as I like Brussels, it is reassuring to know that thanks to the boyfriend I have access to a car, and can escape the city on a whim.

The last few weeks I haven't been doing much escaping, but dashing around with a glazed expression, dishevelled hair and yellow fingers deprived of circulation.  I really should invest in some peruvian rainbow gloves from the Christmas market, or find the ones from last year.  I also went to the glamorous work Christmas party under chandeliers, but the evening somehow ended in an alley off the Sablon, in a seedy karoake bar where, squished amongst colleagues, stained walls and various dodgy-looking regulars, I tried to summon up the courage to sing.  Incidentally I didn't think the adjective "seedy" could be applied to the Sablon.  I was wrong.  By this point cheap white wine was a-pounding in my skull, so I left somewhat prematurely and without singing a note, neatly sidestepping a pool of vomit outside the front door and averting the creepy, leering smile of Le Patron.

Another night I tried an alternative bar, which is probably a good thing.  An oasis in Leuven.  Actually this is just a small bar (I think the word is "intimate"), but rather less creepy than the karaoke bar, which shall remain nameless.  For now.  This Leuven bar, Oase, has space for acoustic performer(s), the odd regular, and a bar that probably doesn't get wiped clean very often.

But wait, Oase, what an extraordinary CD collection you have!  And the girl behind the bar, is that a piercing, on her cheek?!  My eyes flit from girl to shelf, where the various components of a hi-fi system and record player command my attention even more than the Triple Carmeliet on tap.  Records and CDs are even encroaching on the small shelf space devoted to spirits.....  This, you sense, is a music enthusiast's home from home.  Unusually, for Belgium, beer takes second place.

We listen to Paolo Conte, Bob Dylan, and someone else with a deep, gravelly voice.  There are doodles on the back of coasters, stuck to the wall; drinkers both young and old, and plenty of beards....  The barman, dressed in black, looks drunk or stoned, or both.  There are deep voices, wooden stools, wooden floor, a wooden bar, and the distinctive smell of B.O.

Oase is one of a crowd of bars on this Leuven square, but more interesting musically than most.  B.O or no B.O, I'll certainly be back for another Triple Carmeliet.

La Lunette

So many bars, so many beers, so little time.  So what do you do as a bar owner in Brussels to try and attract new customers?  Well, you know that in Belgium every beer should be served in its own special glass.  And if you didn't know, then you soon will: witness the bartender apologising when he doesn't have the appropriate receptacle for your hallowed beer of dark, creamy loveliness.  Just don't venture that it doesn't matter what glass it is in: it does matter, more than you can imagine!  


If you're the owners of La Lunette, you decide that the best way to get the tourists in is to serve their beer of choice in a really, really huge glass.  And this time for me it was Leffe Brune, the beer of fancy.   How big is big?  Well, one litre allegedly.  But appearances can be deceptive, and the glass size seems to fluctuate before my eyes as I make my slow progress.  I would like to subject the glass to further scientific analysis, as my rational self is expecting a gimmick here.  Can it really be cheaper to buy a 12 euro Lunette than, err, several glasses of normal Leffe?  Possibly not, but this is a tradition dating from 1953 and I suppose they think a large glass is more exciting.

Anyway I proceed methodically, and take my time. The beer is drunk slowly, my brain is working sluggishly and I look into the beer's murky depths for inspiration as I talk.  It doesn't come.



Reading your fortune in a lunette beer glass

I've done it once; I don't think I'll do it again.  The bar is a bit bland and I disapprove of the stern notice warning consumers that broken Lunettes must be replaced at great cost.  So easily broken..... Don't let me stop you trying one (they're 24 euros for 2, depending on which beer you have).  But better still, track down a normal-sized kwak glass which will catch out the unsuspecting drinker!  And there are plenty of other curious-shaped glasses to try.


What is a lunette?

Becinbrussels interviews.....Becinbrussels

Goodness!  Becinbrussels is one year old today.  Where did the idea come from? 

It was brewing for a while.  I realised that any creativity my brain had was slowly seeping away.  Every day the only thing I wrote were meeting requests; "Dear Mr X, would you be available to meet Mr Y on a, b or c date in November?"  And all I seemed to read were emails and the news (and there were usually not many positive things to report in there!)  So I thought, I like restaurants, I like cafes - why not write about them?

And you're glad you did?

Oh yes!  Keeping this blog has been all about escapism with, I have to admit, the addition of a splash of subversion!  If I could find something else to write about than meeting requests, printing or photocopying, then I knew all was not lost, that my brain would not shrivel, and I was still capable of independent thought rather than groupthink!  It also gave me an excuse to continue getting out and about in this city, rather than sticking to my usual haunts.  And a few people have told me that they like it, and that it can even be helpful, so I'll continue until they tell me to stop.

What next for Becinbrussels?

I think I should probably make the blog look a bit better, but as you can tell, I'm a bit of a novice.  That's another great thing about doing this blog: I've learned new skills: I now have a vague idea what html is, and I dabble in a bit of photo editing.  It gives me something to talk about.  I'd also like to solicit ideas from people who read this blog.  It's hard to find the time to research new places, and there are some areas of town where I've barely scratched the surface.  Reader recommendations and guest blogs could help!

What kind of place do you have to be to get featured on becinbrussels?

Well, as you have probably noticed, I don't go to expensive places much.  That's mainly because I cannot afford to, but it's also because I like places that have atmosphere, where something amusing happens to me, or that seem to sum up what Brussels is about.  That's not to say that I always really like the places I write about, but they have to provoke some kind of reaction.  Sometimes starched white tablecloths and napkins just don't inspire me that much. 

 

It's 27 November today.  Do you have a tip for me?  It's rather grey outside. 

Ugh, yes.  So it is.  Well, I went for a recce of the Christmas market last night, Plaisirs d'Hiver.  Bitterly cold with gusts of evil wind it was.  It wasn't long before I was enticed over to a German stall selling sausages near the Bourse.  And very good my Bratwurst was too.  Smoked hot dog which you sliced into with your teeth, accompanied by slimy trails of onions and ketchup.  Very warming and satisfying.  Somehow I managed to go home with my hands smelling of curry sauce, but it made me smile anyway.

And finally....

To readers of this blog, thank you!

Le Neptune

Pourquoi Bruxelles?  What kind of fish is a féra exactly? Questions are floating in the air, as I try to stay out of the way of a young chef gutting a tuna.  The said tuna is prepared expertly, with a rather large knife.  I'm reminded that I'm talking to someone who has a important job to do, preparing a five course menu for the evening's diners, and I need to summon up some interesting questions or this busy man will give me short shrift.  But I keep focussing on the tuna.  Now I know (sort of) how to gut a fish.

Nicolas's answers come in slick and fast as he moves on to his second tuna. There is no English translation for féra: the fish that featured on the menu last week.  It's a fish from the Alps, caught in Lake Geneva and Lake Annecy.  Together we consider what appropriate English translations might be for various marrow and squash-like ingredients I tasted here, but the English language proves to be more generalising than I'd like it to be. And then we move on to favourite vegetables: mine are probably swede and parsnip (neither of which seems particularly prized in Belgium.)  The chef wants to know what swede is.  I try to explain, aided by some flamboyant hand gestures, that swede is like a small orange turnip.  The attempt fails.

"Delicate" I think is the word I would use to describe my meal here at Le Neptune.  The five course tasting menu was a gastronomic experience with each course introduced at table; something to be savoured, despite straining to hear your friends across the table.  Stay away if ravenously hungry and coveting calories: elsewhere on this blog there are plenty of carnivorous suggestions to sate your hunger until your sides ache.  Instead this is about your taste buds recognising and appreciating flavours: delicate bergamot and sage flavoured broth, a honey sesame biscuit perched on a quince compote....  You'll also notice the absence of butter, cheese or cream.  The 39 euro menu comprises five small tasting plates of well-balanced ingredients.  Flavours work harmoniously rather than stunning you each time with powerful, exotic colours or startling presentation.  If you're impatient for the next installment, there's always the excellent Fournil du Saint Aulaye bread to nibble on.  And there's an extensive blackboard list of seriously nice wines, should you be worried about the lack of menu choice (hah, none!)  Nicolas used to run a wine bar in Geneva, and still orders bottles from growers he knows personally.  You could really splash out here if you wanted to.   

To sum up: a bistrot in a former umbrella shop, where there is only space for about twenty covers, and you have to cross the tiny kitchen to reach the tiny bathroom.  The kitchen is open - open!  This is a chef who has confidence (arrogance, even) and nothing to hide: even the fridge is transparent; rien à cacher et tout à montrer.....  I don't want to be hidden away in a cellar, says Nicolas.   

Questions to a chef....

Favourite ingredients?  Vegetables, fish.  Not meat so much.

Why a five dish menu?. Wouldn't three be simpler?  Five is more fun.  And this isn't work.

Earliest food memories?  In my grandparents garden around a table in the Haute-Savoie.

One night in Le Neptune Becinbrussels ate:

Tartare de Féra aux courgettes jaunes, sauge, melon et aneth

Aile de raie pochée dans un bouillon de bergamote

Joue de boeuf purée de potimarron, pâtisson et légumes de saison

Assortiment fromages de Julien Harard (+6 EUR supplément)

Compotée de coins, verveine et vanille

Mousse au chocolat

 The evening menu (five courses) is 39 Euro

Lunch menu (three courses) is 25 Euro

48, rue Lesbroussart
for reservations: 04 89 30 33 50

The Old Hack

The Fish and Chips look good.  In fact lots of dishes on adjacent tables look good as I survey the scene and eating punters in The Old Hack, eagerly awaiting the arrival of my meal.  There are plenty of suited business types around, but the decor is surprisingly spartan, even for someone who is used to seeing gastro pubs taking over from ye oldie-worldy interiors stuffed full with memorabilia and bric-a-brac.  A simple mousy-coloured curtain conceals the door, and a mural of the Daily Mail sub-editors table from 1947 is the only thing that keeps the blackboard menu company. 

However, several days later and memories of my lunch in The Old Hack still refuse to fade.  In the meantime I have slowly withdrawn from gossipy lunches with colleagues and drinks with friends, instead grappling with work, translations and seemingly interminable study.  Yes, I have become a rather unsociable being!  I began my weekend presenting a group project on skype to an (imaginary?) audience.  After several minutes of ramblings and a dodgy internet connection, I had the unsettling feeling that I was talking to myself, and my computer and I came to the tacit agreement that this should not go on.  I am craving interaction with people, rather than computer screens and virtual communities - or guinea pigs or tortoises, who I see on a weekly basis.  Of course, eating and drinking would be optional.  But oh for a job where a computer is no longer necessary!  Sometimes I feel like I was born several decades too late....

The scent of my meal wafts towards me as it proceeds through the maze of tables, held aloft proudly by our host.  I can see steam, and smell honey.  In moments of escapism I can still conjure up an image of that jambonneau advancing towards me, and my nose almost twitches at that distinctive honey smell.  Jambonneau does not normally smell of honey: it does in The Old Hack.  I have ordered a mini version, with a pumpkin and potato mash, which comes with a pot of sweet mustard.  Hmm, mustard.  I'm not convinced of the merits of mustard, but I like this one.  Even though, with the delicious flavour, it's not strictly necessary.  The mash reminds me of all that is good about British (yes, British) autumnal cooking - potato mash combined with parsnip, swede, carrot or pumpkin - all adding to a delicious comforting and filling combination.  I have written before about my love of this stodgy, flavoursome staple - luckily I live in a country where this can be indulged with carbonnades and stoemp galore!

While I am lost somewhere close to my culinary version of Heaven, my friend is attacking her spicy green curry with chicken and shrimps, presented with crackers and coconut shavings.  It is copious and tasty, as I can attest, but I am wedded to my colourful plate of jambonneau.  

The owner of our guest house in the Ardennes told me that there used to be many British and Irish pubs around the Schuman area in Brussels.  There are still a few dotted about, but inside The Old Hack I do not feel in Britain or Ireland.  This must be a european version of a Irish pub, and a very tasty one at that.  Book in advance, I say. 

Hack…"a writer or journalist producing dull, unoriginal work" (Source: OED online)

Booze n'Blues

Fakir Hindou will tell your fortune, if you want her to.  She sits atop the wooden bar in her wooden box: just yellowing paper and a whole circle of possible predictions.  Only today Fakir's glimpse into my future is erratic, to say the least.

"Tout marche à vos souhaits", she says.

Suspicious, I insert 20 cents again.  My companion has just had the same result and I am not sure I like Fakir's prediction of my future: it is not always good to have everything you wish for!  If we did, what would inspire us to work hard, to plot grand schemes, to try new things?  The landlady admits that the spinning wheel of fortune does tend to get stuck.  So we receive our twenty cents back, for a new prediction, and I only consider afterwards that this is like feeding coins into a slot machine or having my palm read, or refusing to walk under ladders, or praying - we feel it might help in some way, but are not quite sure how or why.


The jukebox is not working either.  That is a pity, because there are few customers and I could have played whatever I wanted, within a certain epoch.  I take a sip of Grimbergen, and decide to talk to the lady at the bar instead.  Everyone else entering seems to think I am the bar lady.  So I get up and talk, and when I return a few minutes later, as if to punish me, someone has drunk the rest of my beer.

Booze n'Blues has been family-run for the last 13 years.  I've come here several times before, when the jukebox was working.  Not much has changed.  The smoking ban has come in, making the interior a little easier on the lungs, but paintwork and memorabilia and the not-for-the-sqeamish toilet and urinal combo downstairs could do with some touching up.  But this sense of timelessness is really the appeal: I know that if I leave Brussels and return in five years Blues n'Blues will still look the same, and the jukebox might be playing Chuck Berry or Johnny Cash.  Nobody seems too concerned.  It's a personal space of Zappa and Zeppelin papered nostalgia: it is what is is.

Perhaps a little sawdust on the floor to add to the wooden stools, tables and bar and Miller Light signs, and I would feel that I was in rural South Carolina or Tennessee.  But I don't feel quite in America.  The lady tells me her brother opened Blues n'Blues after a former bar, Blues Corner, closed down.  Now he lives upstairs.  He has never been to the US due to a fear of flying, so has missed out on annual blues meetings there.  Instead he has his music here: and a bar interior that reminds me of the US, here in central Brussels.

Booze n'Blues

rue des riches Claires 20