Le Coq d'Or

Do you have a grosse faim?  I mean a really, really grosse faim?  If you do then I suggest you come here, to find out how hungry you really are!

The first time I was invited to Le Coq d'Or, I thought I had arrived at the wrong place.  Wandering through a smoky bar I found myself in the kitchen, but it turned out that this was the friterie.  The tiled walls were covered with posters of bicky burgers and frikadelle, brochettes and tasty "nugizz" at 2 euro 50.  I felt like I was waiting in a dentist's surgery, stomach in limbo, faintly nauseous.  Please, please don't say I have to eat a massive friterie burger.  The only thing I ever touch in a friterie is the frites!  And I'm with a group of guys, one of whom is boasting that he will complete the "challenge".  And then, suddenly, it was all too late: we were seated with napkins and placemats with the owners as audience and I could not, could not leave!

 Second time round and we are just three: one of whom (a Texas Burger Virgin) is determined to attempt the "challenge", while the other two of us have calmly agreed to share.  We bypass the bar for the adjoining friterie and are met by Mr F himself: he gestures us to a vacant table; performing a perfunctory hand sweep to dispatch crumbs and slapping down placemats - all seemingly in one efficient movement.  "Je fais du ménage", he grins.  Who am I to complain?  Sticky tables are nothing compared to the formidable challenge ahead. 

While we wait, still somewhat apprehensively, I can hear chatter from the bar, and the landlady's irresistible cackle.  She emerges to make our burgers: mixing egg and haché together while her husband deals with the frites, frying our batch individually until perfectly golden, and then tossing them in just the right amount of salt.  Finally the thing is assembled and we watch it advance towards us, a puny American flag on the top of a pile of homemade double D sized baps, beef, lettuce, tomato, gherkins and cheese.  Madame gives us some advice: eat the frites first; then flatten the thing (so it appears less monstrous); cut it into four and proceed methodically.  Finally she smiles encouragement and disappears back to the bar.

 Mid-way through Monsieur pokes an amused head round the door and enquires how we are managing.  The sharing two of us have long finished our half burger (and though I'm not admitting it to anyone, I could happily have embarked on a third quarter).  However our TBV has just phoned a big eating friend and is now chewing with renewed determination.  If he finishes he will win a T-shirt and, if he is game, a second burger and; if he finishes that one, well there is the prospect of a free two week stay at the owners' apartment in Spain.  The second burger is never on, but what of the T-shirt?

There's a chip on the tabletop.  We plant the American flag in it and it looks rather lost, like it's on the moon.  It's one small step for a chip, one giant leap -

                                                                     J'ai foiré                   
                                                                     J'en peux plus.
                                                                     J'abandonne.

The challenge is over.  Our friend looks at his swollen stomach, incredulous.  We order a sparkling mineral water to go with our beer, as if that might help.  We decide that it was the baps that were the problem (aren't they always?)  The heavy specially made protectors of all the accompaniments must make up a considerable part of that 1,2kg.  As for me, I'd have loved some more hand-cut frites and I would come back just for a portion of those.  And yes, I'm impressed that the burgers have peppers in. 

Having admitted defeat we can all relax.  We watch, amused, as grandad wanders into the kitchen puffing on a cigar.  Then our host is back.  We learn that they dreamt up the Texas King Burger and challenge on a trip to New York.  The Texas bit just sounded good.  Having sampled a few burger joints and gallon buckets of soda in various American states I can attest that this thing actually Ain't That Big.  Our host seems to agree and shrugs:


               Moi, un 1kg200, je le mange comme ça -
               Comme une entrecôte.

If it weren't for that strong Bruxellois accent I'd say this pair were in the wrong country.
                       

Le Coq d'Or
2, avenue du Bois de la Cambre
1170 Bruxelles
Tel: 02 675 02 58

The friterie is open every day from 18:00 to 22:00, and also for lunch on weekdays between 12:00 and 14:00.

P.S. 13/12/11 Reliable sources tell me that the Texas Kings now cost 15 euros, not 12.... Hmm.  And they had run out of T-shirts (again).

The Brighton @ The Stanhope

It's Friday night and strains of Mozart welcome us in from the rain into an intimate Edwardian drawing room, dimly lit with candles and decorated with wallpaper, upholstered chairs and cushions, and looking out onto a enclosed courtyard with a magnolia tree.

I'm wearing my best cream-coloured coat for the occasion, and have made sure my companions are also suitably attired.  Approaching the hotel in the dark and sans my glasses I mistake one of my friends waiting by the entrance for a doorman.  Luckily he laughs and we move swiftly into the hotel, are relieved of coats and bedraggled umbrellas and given a circular table nearer the door: I hope this is no reflection of our relative youth compared to the other customers, or the fact that we have a particular menu with no advance warning and no choice.  However our circular table is perfect for observing the refinement around us: the waiters at work, the expensive-looking wine labels and the paintings of the royal greenhouses at Laeken.  At least I think that is what they are, but we are at The Brighton, and I think the sketch on the front of the menu is of the Royal Pavillion there.  I don't see any reminders of the palms and hydrangeas of the serres royales, nor the extravagant interiors of the Pavillion, but this is a gently-themed restaurant for the well-heeled.  Anyway, I like the paintings. 

I'm here because the Brussels DiningCity restaurant week provides an opportunity to visit dining establishments that I would normally never consider trying, prinicipally on cost grounds (main courses are in the region of 30 euros).  Our no-choice menu offers a starter, main course and dessert for a reasonable 27.50 euros.  So far so good: but we must still deliberate the apéritif and wine that will accompany our meal (in restaurants such as these I struggle to avoid feeling uncomfortable and the bill always looms large on the horizon.)

We have an amuse-bouche to accompany the apéritif: some kind of ham on a bed of celery; which is tasty and dispatched without much thought.  We move on to the rolls and butter.  Some time afterwards and I am beginning to fidget.  We're listening to Beethoven by now.  The music is just at the right level, or would be if one of my ears was not still blocked by a persistent cold.  Still, we manage to identify all the pieces we have listened to: Mozart Clarinet concerto, Beethoven's choral symphony, Chopin Noctures - how many of our more refined companions would be able to do that?  I allow myself to feel just a little bit smug.

Finally the starter arrives and it is a disappointment.  Billed as "roasted prawns with a mayonnaise of avocado, heart of lettuce a l'orange" it turns out to be a solitary large prawn with a couple of slices of orange on some gloopy greeny sauce with a few leaves of little gem lettuce.  I'm sorry, but when I go to a posher restaurant than usual, I don't expect to be given mayonnaise in any form.  I don't like mayonnaise at the best of times, and anyway I'd always thought it was something you had with chips.....  Or in prawn cocktail.

Anyway, we eat and wait for better things.  The wine is good, and affordable.  When the second course arrives we are relieved to find it beautifully presented and tasty.  The green theme continues with a butter watercress sauce, surrounding cod fillet on a bed of slightly crunchy asparagus with unusual red risotto rice that I have never tried before.  The only problematic ingredient lurks on the vegetable bed: my friend is allergic to mushrooms and the shapes the cod is nestled on are unmistakeablely mushroom-shaped.  He calmly removes them from the pile, and we hope that he will not erupt in spots.  This menu is a bit like a lucky dip.

We discover that the main course is enjoyable and the dessert is too: a mini chocolate bomb filled with other layers of chocolate (mousse? white chocolate ice cream?)  We are unsure, but no matter: it is delicious. 

Then the only difficult part of the evening approaches.  We ask for it, and it duly arrives.  One of my friends goes in search of the cloakroom and his wallet, apparently watched all the way by the head waiter.  We all sort out our 50 euro notes and I squirm slightly - we should be nonchalantly slinging a platinum visa card into the smart folder, but this is 2011 and we are generation Y,  "labelled the most educated, affluent, assertive and IT-literate generation in history", "graduates who dare to demand more", or rather, late twenty-somethings still on the bottom rung of the career ladder, burdened with student debt and the knowledge that we will all probably be working until we are 75 to support the comfortable middle-aged in this dining room....

On my way out (only 44 euro the poorer) I visit the toilets one final time and feel a faint tinge of regret as I dispatch one more used individual hand towel into the basket.  No doubt this hotel still has the polite notices in its rooms requesting that its guests think of reusing their towels, but not here - not downstairs!  I emerge smelling of nice soap and find the others.  We wander round said downstairs, steal a last peek at the elegant little bar/library, and discover the mini library in the undersized lift.  Then it really is time to go. 

For DiningCity Restaurant week Becinbrussels ate:

Grosse crevette rôtie, mayonnaise d'avocat, coeur de sucrine d'orange

Dos de cabillaud, "risotto" riz rouge de Camargue, buerre cresson

Douce délicatesse du patissier

Rue du Commerce 9
1000 Brussels
+32 (0)2 506 91 11
Stanhope Hotel

Brussels restaurant week
http://tourism.brighton.co.uk/history/bodypage.asp?subheading=The+Royal+Pavilion&url=History&mainheading=6
Generation Y: Graduates who dare to demand more

Fritland

Friday's article is about frites - and frustration!  Not that the two are connected: I wouldn't associate frites with frustration at all, but more with satisfaction and defiant indulgence.  And vive indulgence and eating on the street - after all, we can't have organic, whole grain, omega 3 sandwiches every day. 

I thought it might be useful to evaluate the offerings of fritkots, baraques à frites and the more permanent outlets which the British would call chippies, and for which Belgium has a justified reputation.  So in aid of quality testing I called in to Fritland late one Tuesday evening, after some vigorous dancing at Madame Moustache.

The problem is that I think my impression of how good the frites are has more to do with me than any objective quality criteria.  Am I ravenous, grumpy, depressed, or just needing to supplant a liquid meal?  I'm convinced that last time I went to Fritland they were better and more beefy-tasting.  I remember this particularly because a good vegetarian friend was with me and she was enjoying them so much I didn't have the heart to tell her....

This time round the chips were certainly good: crispy and golden; but weren't they more freshly made last time?  They aren't the cheapest in town at 2 Euros, plus 70 cents for sauce (what, 70 cents for ketchup?!)  Next up will be both FritFlagey and Maison Antoine, of New York Times fame.  Let the contest begin!

And the frustration?  Well it is all due to the slow decline of my computer, which has served me well since 2005.  I am refusing to let her go, but the beast is being obstinate and causing trouble.  Anyway, I digress from the issue at hand.

More frites reviews to come.  But yes - please - take with a pinch of salt!


Fritland
49, rue Henri Maus
1000 Brussels


frites.be

02 514 06 27

Madame Moustache

Madame Moustache isn't here, and there is nothing freakish about the people whirling gracefully around the dancefloor on a Tuesday evening in their braces and bowler hats.  There's also precious little facial hair in evidence. 

For me the bar, with its brass, kitsch colours and circus lights, is a thing of beauty; peopled with laughing staff in sailor uniforms and loiterers admiring the swing band and dancing spectacle.  Then there's the long mirror-lined room itself with its striking skylight.  Everywhere people are dancing, and all around the sides others are watching, captivated. 

You'll find me towards the back, tentatively practising my Charleston and triple step learnt in class, yearning - yes, yearning - to progress forwards, towards the bar to dance with strangers, while a circle of people unconsciously forms around you, clapping.  You are the spectacle: eyes gleaming you catch glimpses of your shining, laughing face as you turn.  No, you are not a freak - you are enchanting!

Watching us and our reflections I am convinced that we are the worthy successors of a more glamorous time.  Three generations ago I would be here demurely dressed and waltzing: now I'm in tights and trainers; hair askew; hat perched on head; dancing the lindy hop!  When the band starts up again I am unable to calm my still-fidgeting feet until I take off again, compelled by strident brass and the singer's recreation of Louis Armstrong's voice.  Look around and you'll notice 1950s fashion and some furious spinning and shuffling; but playful, uninhibited humour as well - steps are missed, and improvisation is meant to happen.



source: fr.academic.ru (thanks google)

Later on leaving my thoughts turn, not to freaks, but to poetry, and images of female enchantment!  Elation from a look - or a dance?

WOMAN! when I behold thee flippant, vain,

Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;

Without that modest softening that enhances

The downcast eye, repentant of the pain

That its mild light creates to heal again:

E’en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,

E’en then my soul with exultation dances

For that to love, so long, I’ve dormant lain

Keats, Poems 1817

Madame Moustache hosts a live band and swing and lindy hop dancers fortnightly on Tuesdays.   

Quai au Bois à Brûler 5, 1000 Bruxelles

google map

Madame Moustache (et son Freakshow)

Mais où est Madame Moustache?

Poetry of John Keats

Apollo Swing Lindy Hop classes