Despite a week in Antwerp and Brussels, what I remember most of Belgium is Bruges. Or Brugge. Such a beautiful, quiet, green and utterly charming town, crisscrossed by quiet canals and marked by ancient stone houses. I had asked Runumie, who lived in Belgium for years and is a great cook, what to eat that was typically Belgian, and the answer was moules-frites. Of course, I ate them on day one. And two and three. But everywhere I walked — in Bruges, because the other cities were less villagey and less walkable — I smelt vanilla, because the country breathes of chocolate and ice cream and waffles. Every few steps was an artisanal chocolatier, every next corner a gelateria, and on the streets hot, fresh waffles on sticks or in paper plates.
One day, I had waffles for breakfast. With strawberries, because it was strawberry season. Probably because this was a plated breakfast, the waffle was bigger than any I’d seen earlier. It was golden, crisp and hot, topped with a mound of fragrant strawberries dripping juice, dollops of Chantilly cream, sweetened and whipped, on the side, and, alas, just one plump black cherry atop the cream. The joy of that light-as-air waffle, crisp and tender at the same time, and that abundance of red fruit, its tartness balanced by the gentle sweetness of the cream is still with me.
Green spears and runny yolk
Another superb breakfast was in the sunny, paved courtyard of That’s Toast. It was the only place in Belgium that served us water without our asking, and gratis. I had fresh orange juice to start with, and then ate ‘The Classic’: avocado salsa, poached egg, green asparagus, topped with Grana Padano and mint. The toasted brown bread was spread with a green avocado paste and had not just several spears of green asparagus on it, but a delicious poached egg whose yolk ran when I cut into it. A fluffy cloud of sprouts or micro greens that I couldn’t identify was delicately perched on the whole thing.
The meals we ate more often were European, maybe French. Everything comes with an accompaniment of fried potato chips, French fries — les frites . I don’t know if there’s a substantial difference between French and Belgian food and would welcome any light on this. I ate an indifferent vol au vent with mushrooms and chicken once, and moules — mussels — several times.
The first time, in a restaurant called Brasserie de Post, a few steps from our hotel, on our first night in Belgium, in Antwerp. They served it on a cast iron skillet with dozens of shelled mussels in oil that was still bubbling, covered with a layer of cheese. It was too hot to eat for minutes. This was goodish, but on another night, in Bruges, we went to a restaurant called Breydel De Coninc. There I ordered mussels in cream and white wine. Before they were brought to the table, the accoutrements were: butter, mustard and a huge empty glass bowl. Then came the even larger pan, of mussels in the shell, simmered in cream and white wine. I must have seen this on TV and had been waiting to use the tip: to snap off half a shell and use it to gouge out the meaty mussel from the other half. That meal was a lot of work and fun. The mussels were fresh and plump and the sauce a mere complement, not a masker of flavour.
The waffle was bigger than any I’d seen earlier.
Once I had a sugar craving at tea-time; so we walked to Margritt in a café-crowded lane near the central square. I ate a large, warm muffin that, when cut open, revealed a liquid nugget of caramel. This had to be followed with hot chocolate. In Belgium, they ask whether you want milk or dark and I say dark. Then you get a tall glass cup full of hot milk with a sachet of little chocolate pellets beside it. Unlike Indian drinking chocolate that you need to stir till your arm is ready to fall off, this chocolate melts and dissolves in swirls as you stir it. Thick, malty and mildly sweet, it hit the spot.
Fresh and flaky
After this, we could only face a light dinner so we went to Chagall where I had a salad of scampi, baked apples, a hard-boiled egg and the usual cucumbers, carrots and tomatoes. The crudités were cool and freshly cut and the grilled scampi warm and savoury. They looked, felt, and tasted like prawns. So I couldn’t tell the difference between prawns, shrimps and scampi.
The best meal in Bruges was at Pieter Pourbus: we were with friends, and together we ate many things. The most delicious were asparagus with mousseline sauce, salad of goat’s cheese with bacon, and red mullet fillet with tagliatelle, brunoise of vegetables and basilicum. The asparagus was of the white variety, plump cylinders wrapped in prosciutto and topped with grey shrimp and mousseline sauce. Sweet, tender asparagus and silky, airily fluffy sauce. The goat’s cheese was salty and tangy and soft, held in place by bacon strips, with a bunch of greens in the corner and sauces streaked alongside on the plate. The fish was fresh and flaky with crisp skin, sitting on the finely diced vegetables; the tagliatelle was greened with fresh herbs and the reddish sauce smooth and with a hint of tomato tartness.
In Brussels, we ate at Balls & Glory, which came highly recommended. There were several variations and I had an oven-baked meatball, stuffed with bacon and chervil, accompanied with a crunchy salad. The next night in Brussels, we ate at a Syrian restaurant, Zain Shaam, where we had predictable and delicious kababs, salad, pickled vegetables and hummus, tzatziki and bread coated with a spicy red paste. And, of course, the ubiquitous frites ! And it’s my duty to say that all the frites we ate in Belgium were perfectly cut and fried, golden brown and crisp.
From the once-forbidden joy of eating eggs to the ingratitude of dinner guests, the writer reflects about every association with food. vasundharachauhan9@gmail.com
