Ashok's

Some days nothing can beat a good curry.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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 Chez Maman.  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.

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.

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.

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! 

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.

We didn't manage to eat everything.  

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.

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.

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.

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!



 http://ashoks.be/Ashoks_Brussels_menu.html
192, Chaussée de Vleurgat
1000 Brussels

Le Corbeau

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.
 

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 maladie inconnue?  I thought a bit longer, and then I came up with one!

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. 

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 Le Corbeau, wanna come?"  Yes, I said, almost without thinking at all.

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, so what, the raven is unperturbed.  No matter that this is now replayed every week in Le Corbeau, 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! 

So come to Le Corbeau, 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.

As for me, I'm not prepared to give up hope of spontaneity.  Not yet!  Dancing on tables is not just for students.  

Spontaneity on tap.  Every Friday and Saturday like clockwork it comes back.

18, rue St. Michel

1000 Brussels

02 219 52 46

http://www.lecorbeau.be/