Brussels in the Budding Springtime

Brussels in the Budding Springtime

This was only an overnight visit with friends, but fabulous enough to make me yearn to go back.

Getting there:  German autobahns are not always what you’d expect. The Germans keep their roads in near perfect shape, but that means constant roadwork, which often adds time to a trip. “You can go as fast as you want,” is the common misconception.  Yes and no, is the reality.  On our way to Brussels, we’d go fast for a spell, then have our speed gradually stepped down from “Blur the Countryside Lamborghini Style” to 60 mph, to 50 mph, to 35 mph, and sometimes to 25 mph.  And if there’s an accident, may mercy guide you and I hope you packed a lunch.

Trucks are restricted to 60 mph, but on our way, that didn’t stop two eighteen wheelers from flipping to their sides and straddling a few lanes.  Police and fire trucks held a convention, fortunately on the opposing lanes. 

Our trip to Brussels lengthened from three and a half hours to four and a half.  We arrived in the city to face Friday’s rush hour traffic, hampered by unruly bicycle lanes and plagued by an impossible number of non-coordinated traffic lights.  It’s not that Brussels’ drivers are bad drivers, but that the roads and oddly timed traffic signals promote a suicidal determination to get home or die trying. Capturing the right of way on city thoroughfares requires nerves of steel and obedience to one rule:  Don’t make eye contact.

Tired, but satisfied, we finished the journey.  Fortunately, the friends we were visiting have spots in a parking garage, a gift so rare as to bring tears of joy, kisses on both cheeks, and promises to the almighty to never sin again.

Those are the inconveniences. And now for the wonders of a city I refer to as the Small Paris.  The streets are perfect for walking and walk we did.  As you may know, Brussels is famous for two things:  Beer and Chocolate.  Every other store offers one or the other.  And no matter which beer or chocolate you choose, rest assured it will be a bit pricy and unbelievably delicious.

Cobblestone streets are common in the shopping and drinking and chocolate areas of the city. But, that doesn’t prevent the curvaceous, lavishly attired Belgian ladies from strutting the cobblestones in high heels.  This must take practice, but no more than riding a unicycle, while juggling silk scarves.  Men, too are rather well dressed, but lack the unicycle skills.

On to the outdoor antiques market, with stall after tented stall of every rarity imaginable.   Full sets of silver, the finest crystal goblets, luxurious fur coats, ornate walking sticks, and art of every description. Oddly enough, my companion found three sets of clip earrings at a price much lower than she would pay in a departments store, and also more beautiful, and at no extra charge, she can wear them remembering the romance of having earrings from an antiques market in Brussels. 

We visited a very special chocolate store in Les Galaries Royales Saint-Hubert. This mall rivals London’s Burlington Arcadein elegance and price, although Burlington ArcadepredatesLes Galaries Royalese Saint-Hubert, 1819 vs 1846.

 Mary’s Chocolatesis somewhere in the middle of this justly famous, enclosed shopping street. Les Galariesis home to every pricy brand, including half a dozen chocolate stores, some wonderful cafes, antique stores of the first order, bookstores, furniture stores offering wonderful designs, glove stores, jewelry stores, and so much more.

But, even in this royally priced area, Mary’s Chocolatesstands out. Prices are listed in ounces of gold……only kidding, but I walked out with a small bag full of chocolate and with my Visa Card melting in my hand, not in my mouth.  This is chocolate to savor and remember and drop to your knees to thank the heavenly father for.  The original Mary opened her store almost exactly one hundred years ago, in 1919.

The shop ladies are extraordinarily helpful and speak every language in Europe and the Far East. They also pass out samples that allowed us to taste almost everything in the small, brightly lit shop.

The range of confections is boundless and runs from the familiar truffles and filled chocolates, to real egg shells filled with soft chocolate, tall and slender confectionary roses.  The rose flavored white chocolate truffles are heavenly.  Mary’s confections are not just different, but sensationally delicious. Yes, we sampled the candies and drank large paper cups of rich hot chocolate.  We left the shop poorer, but richer (pun intended) for the experience, and with a fierce determination to return.

Ok, we’d finished with chocolates, so it was time to trot across the road from Les Galaries, for a visit to my favorite Brussels beer hall, La Mort Subite, the name meaning sudden death, is named after a card game.  I’ve written extensively about La Mort Subite, so I will give you a link and right now you’ll have to settle for newly taken photos.

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2013/01/la-mort-subite-maybe-best-beer-bistro.html

Your immediate question may well be:  What about the food???  You damn well better mention the food!!!!

Ok, I will, but sadly, I did not bring my camera to table.  The bistro where we ate was in the old city, on a cobblestone walking street and carries a succinct name:  C’est Bon C’est Belge!  (It’s Good, It’s Belgian), featuring Belgian specialties, such as chicken in a rich cream sauce, and beef stew cooked in dark beer. 

We’re led to a table, then order beers and talk awhile.  There is no rush.  We’re brought a tin tub of dark, grainy bread and a deliciously creamy butter.

The delicious aroma gets to the table before the main course.  My stewed beef is in a sauce as dark as chocolate, but with a perfect melding of herbs and beer and beef.  Magnifique!

Meal over and it’s back to the streets for a long walk home.  Orange streetlights guide our way past massive stone building, a palace and the palace garden.  A pleasant ending to a most pleasant evening.

I know I used the description “cobblestone “ a lot, but once you’ve seen the old part of the city, you’ll know why.  In most older cities I’ve visited there have been a couple of stone streets, but only enough to offer a polite bow to the past.  Not so in Brussels!   

And if you want to blend, have your clothes tailored and dress well!  I told you, it’s a small Paris.

Speaking of Boulangeries - Le Pain Quotidien

I avoid ‘chains.’  Not talking about the medieval versions that make your soul quiver when you play Lord and Serf.  I’m talking about restaurant chains.  Yes, I include Gimmeyerbucks and McBurgers.

Ok.  I do sin occasionally.  And, I swear I’m sorry. Sometimes a man’s gotta have a smack of caffeine anyway he can get it.  But, in the main, when it comes to the big names in fast food, as they say in French, “I defecate upon thy hands with the full force of my churning bowels.

Recently, a close friend introduced me to Le Pain Quotidien, a bakery and coffee shop in the heart of Mons, Belgium.  But, wait a sec…it’s not just in Mons, but in damn near every country that has running water.  Gotta be a mistake.  Can’t be a …dare I mention the word again…CHAIN!  Yes, it is.

Alain Coumont opened his first one in 1990 on 16 Rue Darsaert in Brussels.

What’s so special about Le Pain Quotidien?  How come this chain doesn’t deserve the same retching disgust we reserve for microwave burgers and vending machine coffee?

By the way, in English, Le Pain Quotidien means The Daily Bread.  Daily bread means what it says.  Fresh is the key word.  More than that, everything in this bakery is organic.  Preservatives, flavor enhancers, artificiality, all be damned!

LPQ has the kind of charm that makes you step inside, even if you’ve just finished breakfast.  Authentically, rustic décor.  An irresistible waft of fresh bread. The almost erotic allure of freshly ground coffee. 

You can read all about the history of Le Pain Quotidien on their web page, and also learn where to find the nearest outlet.  http://www.lepainquotidien.com/our-story-history/#.U5WIZhYajwI

But, as always, I’ll give you a thumbnail sketch.  Alain trained as a chef and earned his toque in the same hotel restaurant where his father trained.  But he came by his passion for fresh bread in the best way possible, at his aunt’s knee, baking loaves and tarts on Sunday mornings.  There’s no substitute for the glowing passions you acquire in childhood.

As a chef, he searched all over Brussels for the taste he remembered.  No luck.  Only one thing to do.  Start your own bakery.  His idea was simple:  “Having a place where I can feel at home away from home.”

To me, chains are too often a glitzy failure of artificial atmosphere: an English pub with plastic, pseudo-wood, or a grand old steakhouse, remembered with glass, steel, and recessed lighting.  Doesn’t fool you anymore than replacing a leather basketball with a balloon. Dishonesty comes to mind, followed quickly by stupidity.

Le Pain Quotidien didn’t cut the corners, or introduce a substitute for real charm. It just feels right and inviting.  Lots of old wood, including the counters.  Faded walls look as though they carry the patina of decades.  Chairs creak a bit.  But, the most important part of this bakery is the bread.  Loaves on shelves where you can see them. Fresh. Fresh. Fresh. Crusty and wholesome.

The coffee is dark and rich, without being bitter, or ragged on the edges.  Comes in a bowl, just the way Alain’s hot chocolate did when he was a boy.  Your choice of a large bowl or small.

It was early morning.  I ordered a coffee and a croissant.  Golden. Light. Flaky. Delicious.  Just as a croissant should be.  If you’re thinking crescent roll, get your mind out of the school lunchroom and into somewhere more Gallic.  At LPQ, the croissants are light as air.  Try a smear of orange marmalade, or one of LPQ’s delectable sweet nut spreads. They’re on every table.

You won’t be sorry.  And you’ll find time to linger.  This isn’t just breakfast, this is the start of a beautiful day.

I know I’ve got time.  Who hasn’t got time for another glimpse of childhood on a sunny morning. “Mademoiselle, un autre café, s'il vous plaît.”

Brussels' Beer Cafés - Part I

The only Brewers' Guild left in Europe

My wife says to me, “I want to go to Brussels for the weekend and drink a lot of beer.”  I deserve no special sympathy.  I know the same thing has happened to you.

“You probably want a first class hotel, too,” I say.

She simply nods, knowing that at this point I have the reasoning power of a trapped mouse. The suitcase sits on the bed, open and empty, a gaping mousetrap.

We pile our meager belongings in the trunk of her convertible and head down the autobahn, across the rolling hills of Germany, green valleys of Luxembourg, and a small slice of France, to reach Brussels, a fine old city of ancient open markets, cobblestone streets, and a host of restaurants and beer palaces.  Towering building line the squares, dating from the time when architecture meant solid, hewn stone, instead of slender threads of steel and sheets of glass.  Too many words for you?  Want me to shorten it?  Ok.  Brussels is old.

We pull into the hotel parking lot and I find that parking will cost 35 Euros, or about forty-eight bucks a night.  Cheap Tickets is mute on this point.  There is also a nightly ‘city tax’ of nine bucks a night.

But, the hotel, Radisson blu, is right astride the old city, perfect for walking to everything you want to see, do, eat, and drink.

Our first stop is A La Mort Subite, a café I wrote of earlier.  (http://stroudallover.blogspot.de/2013/01/la-mort-subite-maybe-best-beer-bistro.html)  Hasn’t aged a day since 1900.  We step through the narrow, etched glass door and into a time machine. The place is crammed.  The waiter, in black trousers, a white shirt and black vest, with a white, waist apron, brings me a Faro and my wife a Kriek.  For the uninitiated, these are both types of Belgian beer, of which there are some 400 varieties.  In this case, both are on tap and both carry the La Mort Subite name.  Both are also of the traditional Lambic variety, meaning top fermented and therefore not fizzy.  Smooth.  Tasty.

Kriek carries a definite cherry nose and cherry flavor, although there is little to no sweetness.  Sour cherries are added in the barrel on the second fermentation.  Round finish.  My wife wastes no time downing it.

My Faro has a tinge of sweetness, with soft caramel and bright citrus notes.  Sour finish, but somehow more satisfying for it.

A Brussels beer parlor is all drama.  In an hour you’d have material for a short story, in an evening, a novel.

We linger, watching the panorama unfold in the high ceiling, softly muted room.  A couple struggle with their baby.  Whoops, the other couple with them also has a child.  A table down, an elderly woman lightly butters her bread, then adds a slather of soft cheese.  She bites into this as delicately as a hungry croc crushing the bones of an antelope. Along with the bread, she tooths a bit of radish and a nibble of raw, green onion.  In moments, a season’s worth of radishes and green onions disappear, along with two heavy slices of bread, a cup of butter, and a solid belt of cheese.  All washed down with a half pint of light colored beer.  This old girl is not shy about what she wants.  Wonder what she was like in her healthy, hormonal 20s?

Across the way, a man tries to move two chairs to an already heavily crowded table.  The waiter objects.  The man stands his ground, ignoring all, but his companions at the crowded table.  Clearly he is blocking the narrow opening past the table into the kitchen.  The waiter shrugs, his hands at shoulder level, palms up.  Finally the man wedges the chairs into suitable positions.  Crisis averted.

We pay our bill and struggle to find a path down the lenghty aisle to the door.  Outside, the cool air is a welcome relief.

My wife pulls out a map, dotted with famous beer joints, none of which is newer than the early 20^th Century. The map is a great relief, as I have no freaking clue.  Plus, my wife has a sense of direction that could have led Columbus straight to India.

Next in line is Le Cirio, originally an Italian deli.  Francesco Cirio’s photo is still on the wall.  We order more beer.  Surprised?  For me it’s a Watney’s Scotch Ale.  When I see English beer on the menu, I gotta giv’er a go.  Luscious whiskey-vanilla nose.  First sip is just a tad sweet, as if a willing wench kissed the rim of the glass.  I don’t tell my wife this.  “Not bad,” I say, licking the rim.  Full bodied brew.  Easy finish.

My spouse orders a Maes pils.  I generally don’t have a thirst for pils.  This one is no exception. Bland nose.  Bare wheat taste.  Rough finish.  Her nose turns up, but just barely.  Ladies do not complain, because they always get what they want anyway.  This time is no exception.  She reaches for my beaker of Watney’s.  I try to look pleased.  Same smile you’d give if a weightlifter crawled under the table and gave me the old squeeze-ho.  I do not get my Watney’s back.

If anyone sees me grimace, they don’t show it.  The couple crammed into the dinner plate sized table beside ours must be married.   They’re not saying much.  She could be pretty.  He could be an accountant who’s worked at the same job in the same office for thirty years.  He would be happier at home, with a glass of warm milk.  Not her.  I feel someone looking at me.   I turn just a quarter turn. She smiles shyly.

On the other side of us is a table for four.  Two ancient, unhappy men and two comparable women trying not to be.  I speak little French, but one man is saying how much better this place used to be.  Sure, like he can remember anything earlier than breakfast.

Just as in many Brussels restaurants, in Le Cirio all the waiters are men. They all wear the same black and white ensembles I mentioned.

Le Cirio does not hold the crowd that populated A La Mort Subite, but it’s still far from empty.

Once again, we fight our way to the rain swept streets, but hover near the door and my wife pulls out her map.  I feel sure the best is yet to come.

End of Part I, but do not fear.  More Brussels beer adventures in Part II.