Monte Bianco

It's Friday evening and I'm seated next to cookery books in various languages, jars of pesto and dusty wine glasses.  I move one of the books beside me to reveal a copy of Harry Potter and then start reading the first chapter of a sinister German children's book with a murderous character called Mouse.  On the walls are a still from la Dolce Vita, murals of an Indian priestess and ancient Eygptian, and a wheel. Who invented the wheel, the Romans or the ancient Eygptians?  It seems the right answer is not that obvious: Wikipedia says "the question of which culture originally invented the wheeled vehicle remains unresolved and under debate".  But it's not worth arguing over someone's choice of wall decoration.  This doesn't feel like a restaurant though: I'm in someone's front room, surely?

It was quite successful really, Friday night.  I walked past bars that I didn't know existed, many of them interesting-looking, and I made mental notes to return.  Then we came across this Italian trattoria in a non-descript street off the Boulevard Anspach, with shutters up and chalk-scrawled blackboards listing pizzas, along with the phrase "nous sommes ici pour vous."  There must have been a front door too, somewhere, one of those ingenious ones that fold away so the whole front of the room stays open to the balmy Brussels night.  Inside to get to the toilets you walked past the kitchen in the back, which was open, crowded with tomatoes, pizza dough, and piles of washing up in the sink.

It soon becomes obvious that we will not need to supply our own entertainment for the evening.  Our hosts are two Italian brothers, dressed in black.  One moves slowly around the dining room taking our order; the other works noisily in the kitchen shovelling pizzas into the oven.  We order a selection of home-made pasta and a pizza, and sit back sipping our wine.  Suddenly, disaster strikes.  A newly replaced tome on Italian cooking slips from its propped up position on the shelf and skids over our side table, sending wine glasses across the table and glass to the floor and over us.  In moments such as these I realise that I would not be the best person to thrust suddenly into an emergency, as for several moments I am incapable of doing anything.  There is silence, all heads turn, and our neighbouring table decide that now is a good time for a cigarette break.  The waiter brother seems paralysed, preparing to run out and leave us there with glass around our feet.  Suddenly the cook in the kitchen springs towards us with a broom, balancing our pizza on his other hand.  He shoos us quickly to another table, sweeps up the shards of glass, and returns moments later with my pasta selection.

Anyway "Ils se prennent pas la tête!" Says my friend, in some relief.  I was half expecting a scolding.  Instead we are left to eat as ring-side spectators, while the cook seats himself among the other customers and pours himself a glass of wine.  He is one of those fascinating people who cannot stop talking: his stream of words do not seem addressed at anyone in particular: they tumble out fast; combining Italian with some strongly accented French, and a perplexing range of subjects, which seem to include the Karma Sutra, Lenin, Libya, football and Berlusconi.  Meanwhile his silent brother sits at a table watching him like a docile creature waiting to be stroked.

One of the customers jokingly observes that the chef has poured himself a better glass of wine than is on his table.  The chef waves his hands in mock exasperation and tops up the glasses of the people around him.  We customers have long given up talking to each other, and the focus is on the noisy brother.  As one man puts it, "In whatever language you speak, it's always Italian!"  The trattoria  is discussing football again.  I can only try to listen, my stomach swelled with pasta and my brain slowed by wine.

Forget the pristine starched white tablecloths, over-sized pepper pots, sterile service and pricey pizzas of some Italian restaurants in the EU district.  Well, perhaps there's a place for those too if you do business lunches.  But I'm coming back here once memories of the wine glass incident have faded, to pretend I'm eating in a trattoria in a small Italian village.  In any case the jovial chef is not mean with the tasty ingredients: I am unable to finish my selection of pastas: samplings of mushroom gnocchi, spinach lasagne, tomato pasta and pesto spaghetti.  And the pizza has plenty of mushrooms, proper ham and a good base.  The tiramisu was homemade too, but sadly I didn't have space.

The brothers have been serving pizza and pasta in this location for five years - before that they were somewhere else in Brussels.  You can enjoy a pasta dish, a pizza and a bottle of house wine for around 35 euros.    

rue des Pierres 24,
Brussels

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wheel

'T Zoet Genot

In Brussels whatever clothes you leave the house in will always turn out to be the wrong clothes!  So goes the saying of one of my friends.  Earlier I cycled back to work in the sunshine, arriving a little sweaty.  We were planning to go rowing.  A few hours later the lowering sky became progressively gloomier, and lights spontaneously flickered on in offices.  I sat uneasily in my deserted office waiting for the inevitable strike - not wanting to commit myself to cycling home or rowing.  When the rain came it was with a roar and a thump and a full percussion section, battering down on the streets until they were awash with greasy water.  I sat wondering if there could possibly be any more rain in the sky, and whether these violent storms were really a consequence of global warming....  Then, when there was some respite, I abandoned the bike and walked home, splashed by raindrops and accompanied by thunderous groans of indigestion from the sky - but avoiding the worst.  The weather was bad.  Later I was shocked to learn that some festival-goers at the Pukkelpop festival near Hasselt were killed and others injured by falling stage debris in a violent storm.

Then, tantalisingly close to home, the rain came down again.  "Mauvais, hein?", said a neighbour, sheltering in a doorway.  I arrived, doused again at my front door, in my spattered white jeans, convinced that my friend was right about the clothes.

 Meanwhile I'm reliably informed that this weekend will see some warm weather and temperatures of 30 degrees.  Finally some perfect weather for pancakes, waffles, cakes and ice cream on the beach!  My housemate introduced me to a great place to eat all four last month.  Of course the day was blustery and distinctly cool-ish.  I don't want to risk confusion here, so I'll tell you now that 'T Zoet genot is in Oostduinkerke.  Go inside and the place smells heavenly: of cooking pancakes and batter and cream and sugary waffles.  Basically there's enough sugary delight in here to lift you even if the weather won't!  Both inside and on the beach terrace there's a lot of choice and mixing and matching going on.  I combined a traditional pancake with a healthier wholegrain one - all for tasting purposes because it turned out that my lemon and sugar pancakes came with two sizable pots of brown and demerara sugar.  I think my friends had pancakes with chocolate and banana or waffles with whipped cream and chocolate, but I was mostly concentrating on my pancakes - and on an eye-catching ice cream and fruit creation on a neighbouring table. 


't Zoet Genot
Zeedijk 476
8670 Oostduinkerke

Tel: +32(0)58 52 07 47
Mail: Info@zoetgenot.be
http://www.zoetgenot.be/



Did I write the other day that Brussels' roads had become more comfortable places to ride?  Well, I retract that.  Friday afternoon and the horns, angry gestures and near-misses are back.  I narrowly avoided being run down on my bike in the middle of a junction, having patiently waited to follow in the wake of a car turning left into my road.  I received an angry blast from the horn and a wave of the arms in response to the only words I could mouth through the windscreen, quite polite ones I thought, "Mais qu'est-ce que vous faites!".  Presumably Mr I-must-get-home-never-mind-anyone-in-my-way felt that "priorité de droite" still applied even though I was mid-way across the junction, but actually I think he was too impatient to look properly.

I feel I'm seasoned enough at the ways of Brussels' roads now to be able to judge them with a reasonably unbiased eye.  I'm a fairly regular car passenger (not having a car or anywhere to park one), a fairly regular but still rather timid cyclist, and a fervent believer in walking, as much as possible.  When doing the latter and using pedestrian crossings I've learned to make eye contact with the driver beforehand and to nod or mouth a thank you as I walk.  I've seen cyclists act as if they were truck drivers, not flesh and bone on a flimsy aluminium frame.  I've seen pedestrians risking their legs by stepping out in front of vehicles, and I've seen more than enough cars acting as if they, and only they, were the Kings of the road.  And the traffic signal timings are bad and don't seem to relate to actual traffic flows....  Is it any wonder that nothing runs smoothly?  Politeness goes out of the window.  I won't bore you with tales of the many times I've been scared, shocked, furious!  Ultimately my take on the situation is this: irrespective of whether the cyclist or pedestrian is right or wrong; in a contest between their flesh and bones and your welded metal bubble with its air-filled cushion; irrespective of how well your bubble crumples on impact; the cyclist or pedestrian is always going to come off worse.  So please take care.

As for me, the only way I get to take revenge on Mr Mr I-must-get-home-never-mind-anyone-in-my-way in the dark glasses is to write about him and share him with you, dear readers!  For he drove off too fast for me to collect my thoughts or note his number...

Café Comptoir

Back at work.  Just as some of my colleagues depart on their second holidays, and a new set of shopkeepers post their "Congés annuels" notices.  Only I am left battling the shredder!

Walking home many places seem to be shut up, including both bakeries on Place Jourdan.  Not so the kitsch, brash interior of the sunbed shop, where a defiantly orange, bleached, taloned lady is staying open.  Says it all really!  And two weeks of holiday haven't changed my colours: I'm still pale-ish, perhaps a little rested and rounder than before.  The temperature gauge above the pharmacy reads 27 degrees.  I can't quite believe it.

But Brussels in August is a good place to be.  Finding restaurants or cafés to write about may be trickier than usual, but at this time of year I want to try.  And so do the tourists.  Foolish restaurateurs, why not flee in gusty, frigid February, rather than mellow August?  There are fewer people, fewer cars, less tooting and parking-incited rage, and the people who are left seem benign and chilled.  Yes the road home has been dug up again but I pick my way dreamily past holes and trip hazards.  Later, I sit among sad little plants on the terrace: too much water, not too little!  The sky is threatening rain again.  But the papyrus likes it, and the mint is taking over.

I wonder if Café Comptoir is one of those staying open.  I like this little place on the corner of the Place Saint-Boniface.  There are cooler, busier, fancier offerings elsewhere on the square, but here they serve up a mean burger!  You'll have to take my word for it, because I don't seem to be able to find my photos....

As well as the regular selection of burgers, they also have special ones listed on a blackboard.  I like "Le Comptoir": a juicy burger with herbs, sundried tomatoes, comté and nice bacon, served in a floury bun with straw fries and a little salad.  Good stuff for a Sunday evening with Dire Straits on the radio.  And there is a large selection of pittas - with a twist.  I try one with dried raisins, banana and pineapple, which is good, but not as substantial as the burgers.  After the main courses the desserts are a little bit disappointing, if only for their size.  The mains are good value, but I'd like the desserts to be bigger!


This isn't a restaurant, it's a café, but for burgers it'll give some other restaurants I've tried a run for their money.... 8/10 says my friend.


Café Comptoir
rue de la Paix 22
1050 Ixelles