Gaetano's in Brussels

The hotel I stayed at in downtown Brussels did live up to all expectations, but like all apparently seasoned business travelers, I figured the best way to experience culture when all you have in a city is approximately 48 hours is to find a “real” restaurant somewhere in town – where the locals go to get good food.

Jack, my business colleague, and I decided en route that we needed to pick up some souvenirs for the families back home.  There was a little store just down from the hotel, which featured many kinds of liquor and only one kind of souvenir.  A small naked boy urinating.  Some were 2 inches high, and some nearly life size – in bronze, silver and copper.  Teaspoons tastefully decorated with the stream eddying down the handle of the spoon.  Snow globes (though thankfully not with yellow snow). Playing cards, aprons, espresso mugs, shot glasses – all graced with little 'Manikin Pis'. 

Some homework yielded the information that the young Belgian king, while out for a walk with his nanny, felt the urge and demanded the divine right to relieve himself now.  Despite pleas from the nanny, he dropped his pants and went in the street.  Since then, the legend has been embellished somewhat, insisting that the king was in fact instrumental in putting out a small fire that could have threatened the entire capital city, etc. etc.  (Shades of the little Dutch boy and the hole in the dike).   There was duly erected in the center of town a statue commemorating the event, and for added realism and nostalgia, the statue was afforded an additional role as an anatomically correct fountain.  Apparently the statue receives clothing at certain festive times, whether or not these are occasions during which Belgium feels a need for additional modesty is unclear.  In any case, perhaps in defiant support of that which truly sets Brussels apart from other European capitals, the man in front of us on the sidewalk unhitched his belt and irrigated the flowerpot decorating the street. 

A couple of blocks removed from any vehicle traffic whatsoever, down a darkened street illuminated only by his vertical sign with arrow lay Gaetano’s restaurant.  As we approached, Gaetano himself leaped to his feet and ushered us inside, to the strains of some particularly enthusiastic gravel-voiced Italian pop star.  We had the entire place to ourselves.  The music suddenly came to a halt, to be replaced by Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. 

Gaetano himself did not appear to be a happy man.  Upon hearing distinctly North American-inflected English, he had apparently resigned himself to serving a couple of culinary Philistines. Matters were not helped by our choosing our own bottle of Chianti.  Menus appeared, and a twinge of unease on my part.  They were printed on one single sheet of paper, laminated in the way of most chop suey houses, and advertised a scant selection of pizza, pasta, and meat dishes.  Ah well, at least the prices were reasonable.

Gaetano reappeared, detached and grouchy.  He took our order for an entrée each, and disappeared.  He deposited our pasta before us, and left again.  The tortolli with black truffle sauce was in sharp and wholly pleasurable contrast to the visual quality of the menu. It was frankly amazing, the kind of food which breeds unhealthy obsessions.  He must have heard something in our exclamations, either that or his love for fine dining drove him back to our table, where he declared, “You know, most of my customers allow me to order for them.  Then they have a cold starter, a hot starter, and a meat dish or pasta.”  A few seconds passed.  We could not pass it up, and so, while doing it backwards, we ordered the cold starter – a carpaccio, with shavings of parmiggiano reggiano.  Whisper thin and silky beef, dressed with arugula, not the bitter wilted weed that you must pretend to like in order to be properly cultured, but a muscular, earthy complement setting off both meat and cheese perfectly.

Gaetano cracked a smile, allowing that even Americans can have good taste.

“I’m actually from Canada – he’s from America”, I corrected, pointing at Jack, and ever conscious of my national inferiority complex.

“Ah, it’s all the same,” says Gaetano, “Canada, America – no difference to European people”.

“Oh, so you are from Switzerland, you said?”  I say, maliciously.

A sharp stare.  “NO.  I am from Napoli!”

“Ah, Italian, Swiss – all the same, no?”  Gaetano bursts out laughing, a high-pitched giggle. We compliment the food again, and he describes the history of the restaurant – the waiter whom, unbeknownst to the boss, has been rushing customers through their meals so that he can get out of there by 9:00 until Gaetano, with customer base dwindling away, finally catches him in the act and fires him.  Now starts the rebuilding.  Lunchtime is good, evenings still a challenge.  

He puts his hands on the table, and pointedly tells us that if we had let him choose a GOOD wine, we would have enjoyed ourselves even more.

Emboldened, we decided to ask Gaetano whether there was anything famous about Belgium at all.  He looked offended, and so we had to explain that we really didn’t know why the Manikin Pis thing was so big.  Wasn’t there anything else?

“Yes!  Atomium!”  he said.  Blank looks from the ‘Americans’.  Then I remembered – something I had seen from the train window, off in the distance.  A very large, very shiny stainless steel rendering of the atom, built for Expo ’57 in Brussels, I explained, with very large spheres connected by tubes – probably 10 storeys high.

“What’s inside it?” asked Jack the ever-practical.

“Inside it?  Nothing is inside it!” exclaimed Gaetano, injured.  “It is a sculpture!”  (Culturally deficient Americans!)  And then, a long list of things which we had really never heard of, including a palace to which the king goes every day to work.  These are all glories of Belgium, apparently.

Jack, the ever-practical and now perhaps in danger of becoming Jack the little-bit-annoying-to-Gaetano, asks – “Why do they only sell the little boy peeing, then?” 

Gaetano changes the subject.

There was no way to avoid dessert.  Gaetano had poured out his soul – he wanted Belgians to know real Neapolitan cooking, this was his mission in life.  And he hovered to ensure we understood that.  We acquiesced, becoming the next essential players in Gaetano’s dream.  Vanilla gelati with white chocolate chunks, drenched with a double espresso. Sheer decadence, the soul of Italy.

Which was soon spoiled entirely by a grand gift – Gaetano’s grappa, on the house. Innocently clear, like a mountain stream, the first sip brought on the kind of heartburn that makes you wonder about calling an ambulance.  He grinned, drinking in our appreciation and ardor for this wondrous Italian invention.  We sipped more, grinning ferociously.  Hoping to deflect attention from my squirming, I asked him how grappa is made.  A detailed description followed, but basically, it is whisky make of the crap that’s left once the grapes have all been squished for wine.  Mmmm.  Faint diesel overtones, sandpaper finish.

That couldn’t wreck the evening though.  We heard Gaetano in the basement kitchen, singing loudly.  We decided on the spot to come back the next night.  This time, he chose the wine, he chose the entire altogether sublime meal, including an astonishing osso buco.  I asked for the recipe.  He said "No" and – broke out the GOOD grappa, an oxymoron right up there with “pretty ugly” and “jumbo shrimp”.  (Note to self – do not praise falsely, for this may lead to another glassful on the house).  And then he produced the bill - "Look - normally THIS is what I would have charged you.  But look what I do for you - (Slash!, Slash!) On the house! On the house!  NOW, you see what I do for you?"  We did, and we appreciated it greatly.  Our enthusiasm for a long walk to see the real Manikin Pis considerably dulled by Italian hooch, we meandered back to the hotel.