Due to our distinctly North American penchant for eating dinner before the sun goes down, the restaurant, (nestled along a short street apparently famed for the fact that every address on both sides is occupied by a restaurant), was closed when we arrived shortly before 6:00 p.m., jet-lagged but hungry.
My idea was maybe to try one of the others along the street – I mean, my last experience with hotel front desk recommendations for restaurants was decidedly nothing to write home about – and the fragrances wafting from “La Vigne”, “Le Roi des Moules” and even “Japanese Fondu” were not a little seductive…
In a candid burst of diplomacy, however, Bob reminded me that there was probably a particular reason why Bertrand’s recommendation was unusually passionate, so we elected to wander for twenty minutes through the shopping arcades of downtown Brussels.
With a twinge of worry, I noted once we returned that G-EA was teeming with exactly one additional customer. And in the doorway stood a resigned-looking Greek, with a faraway expression in his eyes.
It turns out that Monsieur Christo was, in fact, the proprietor. There are two kinds of restaurateurs in the business – those whose goal is to make a business of it, and those whose primary compulsion is their love of feeding people well. The latter category is characterized by people who stand by the table awaiting your reaction to their presentation on your plate, who lean forward to watch your face change when the first bite goes in, and who beam with obvious relief once they are assured that you really do like what they’ve made.
Bertrand at the hotel had obviously done this before, noting that the clincher for most guests interested merely in getting a decent meal would probably be the additional incentive of getting something free. What Bertrand knows, (and we didn’t), was that the extra incentive of getting a free aperitif, and “maybe even a free dessert” is actually completely unnecessary…but more about that later.
Christo seated us outside, on his enclosed sidewalk patio. I asked him my usual question, when engaged in culinary speed-exploration of a city in which I spend too few hours to do any proper cultural immersion… “What would YOU eat on this menu? What should we eat-something which is particularly Belgian?”
Without hesitation, (as he set down a plate of croutons, olive tapenade, Greek tomato and cucumber salad and a tablespoon of Orzo with black olives), he said that our timing, by coincidence, was excellent. September, October and November were the season of the mussel in Brussels, and if it were him eating, he would without question have the “moules marinieres”.
And, of course, the house-made frites. Not the skinny fries, but the wide ones, made here in our own kitchen from scratch. Yes, to be eaten in concert with the moules.
“Well, that’s what we have to have, then”, we say, sipping our vaguely peach-flavored but nonetheless outstanding aperitifs. “But which version? Steamed with white wine, with cream, with garlic? What about Provencal? What IS Provencal, anyway?”
“Provencal is a tomato-based sauce. It’s really good, but I don’t think you should have it with these mussels, because then you’ll get mainly the taste of tomatoes (which really are good, by the way), but I think it’s important that you primarily have the taste of the mussels. And, many people like combining the cream with the garlic, and having both with the mussels”.
Bob chose that combination. I picked the vin blanc version.
“And, what should we drink, Monsieur Christo?”
“Oh, this white wine from Chile is really quite good, monsieur.”
“Chile? Am I allowed to drink a Chilean wine with such a deeply European dish? Well, if you say so, Monsieur, of course, we will take your recommendation.”
The tapenade, croutons and other introductions disappeared quickly, each one a small but perfect nod to fine French presentation with a generous bow to our host’s ancestry.
And then came the moules. For each of us, a gigantic black enameled tureen, with a deep cover designed to hold the empty shells. Christo opened them with a flourish. I buried my face in the burst of steam (promptly taking five years off my increasingly grandfatherly visage), and inhaled deeply. There’s a reason wine connoisseurs sniff deeply before they drink – I think the tactic should be employed with everything you intend to put in your mouth. This was a flourish of intense wine and brine, punctuated with just the right exclamation of garlic, and that singularly unidentifiable but perfectly obvious sense of absolute freshness you can only get from shellfish that mere minutes ago were quite happily feeding in the cool currents of the North Atlantic.
We began to eat. Each shell contained the fattest, firmest orangey-yellow mollusk I have ever speared with a fork. Each bite was sublime – buttery smoothness, the essence of the ocean, the pinnacle of food in season. Bob made a confession later. He said, with characteristic candor, “I gotta tell you, I’m not really much of a mussel guy, and figured ‘When in Brussels’ – but that was really something!”
Yes, it was. And to accompany these mussels came a cone of French fries, encased in a paper wrap, and presented with a small dish of mayonnaise blended with mustard (the white wine and Dijon kind). Saving us from routine barbarian embarrassment, Christo quickly advised that the sauce was for dipping the mussels, not the fries. Regarding these fries, it does them injustice to call them French fries, because these little gems are in fact an invention of, and gift to mankind by the Belgians. And yes, they are traditionally supplied with filet mignon, but in the fall months, they sidle up beside the mussels in a second tradition – “Moules Frites”.
Well, they’re just fries, aren’t they? Non, monsieur. These potatoes are carefully parboiled first. That’s what makes the inside so incredibly creamy. Then they are fried in oil with another secret ingredient. In your sunflower oil, add duck fat! (Please refer here to your list of simple pleasures which God intended man to eat). Not only does this add to the wonderful crispiness, but adds the crowning dimension, that which separates McDonald’s from civilization.
The problem here was that we became greatly distracted – one can’t stop eating the mussels, but if you do, in order to have a frite, then you can’t stop eating frites, either. The fries started losing the battle to the mussels, but Christo comes prepared. In his restaurant, you shall not eat cool fries, so the half-empty cones were replaced, quickly, with a second round – this time in a porcelain crock, scathingly hot from the kitchen (along with a quiet reminder that these were also, in fact, house-made, by hand…)
He filled our wine glasses. This was unusually good. I am far from an expert in which wine goes with what, but my eyebrows went up…”This is Chilean wine?”
“Ah, pardon, monsieur. When I thought about what you said about being in Europe and eating such a European meal, I changed the wine for you. This one is French, as it should be. But I will give you the Chilean price, of course!”
Meanwhile a face cautiously appeared at the corner of the building, just over Bob’s right shoulder. It was Bertrand, from the hotel, face full of questioning concern, inquisitive thumbs up, mouthing “Is it OK”? Firmly nodding, thumbs up in return, a quiet “Thank you!” mimed back to him, whereupon Bertrand nonchalantly strolled by with cellphone on ear, down the street. Good thing we’d decided to come back.
We’d reached the bottom of the black tureen, the place where the broth that had steamed up through all the mussels lay. No longer mindful of proper etiquette, I lifted the pot, and drank. Some say you needn’t. Well, don’t listen. My meal was thus blessedly complete.
Well, almost. It was time for dessert.
I chose a moelleux of chocolate. (When in Belgium, you know…) A moelleux is somewhat like a soufflé, I think, but “cakier” with a lovely unctuous flow of pure dark melted lava waiting in the middle. Bob had a generous dollop of Greek yogurt, flavored with thyme and garnished with drippingly honeyed orange peel, surrounded with an acre of red fruit – raspberries, strawberries, and quartered fresh figs.
We beamed. Christo beamed. It was a mutual admiration society! Christo, his life’s purpose reaffirmed again (which I am sure happens to him on a regular basis) announced that in addition to the aperitif, the house would be pleased to furnish for us an after-dinner digestif, and would we please choose anything.
Naturally, this needed to be properly French as well. So Bob chose Armagnac, and I ventured where I had not gone before, asking Christo whether a Calvados would be appropriate. (More beaming – yes, apparently both were entirely to the point).
I wish I could say I became a convert to this apple-based liqueur, but to be honest, I probably need to try it more than once before it becomes a favorite. As a signature at the end of a meal resulting from being in the right place at the right time, however, it was, how to say, correcte.
What I love about restaurateurs like Christo is that while the money is important, the sheer satisfaction on the guest’s face is the real reward. So when we added a tip to the bill, something that showed how we really felt about the meal, Christo was visibly moved. Along with his heartfelt handshake and quiet “Merci a vous, messieurs”, we were each presented with a hand-picked bottle of red from his cellars.
Would we ever go back? Some would say you can’t repeat the experience, let alone the food. But yes, we did in fact go back. Three nights later, this time pulling in 11 colleagues from our meetings in Brussels. I am pleased to say, our new friend in Brussels did not disappoint, in any way. I won’t tell you what I had, because I don’t remember – I was having too much fun watching everyone’s faces, and hearing their exclamations as they pushed back from their plates when we finally stopped at nearly midnight. Christo’s knowing look, punctuated by another bottle of fine vintage slipped to Bob and me as we left Brussels proves it – feeding people good food is fun.
