Passover, Au Pays des Merveilles

Passover's coming up next week, and I was thinking of trying to help J throw together a seder - until I realized I have absolutely no idea where to procure the ingredients. (The koshermonger?) I am not Jewish, but J is, and in New York we occasionally hosted a seder for a mix of Jewish and gentile friends, usually with a ceremony obtained from the internet (as opposed to the Maxwell House version used by J's parents). One google search led to another, and eventually I found a list or two of Jewish traiteurs and kosher restaurants in the area.

Along the way, I also found a fellow expat's blog which mentioned a bagel place in Saint Gilles, Au Pays des Merveilles. Driven by a mixture of homesickness and yearning for Jewish food (J has always said my stomach is more Jewish than his), we paid a visit today. The weather was unusually sunny and warm, so we sat on the terrace outside. The waiter, unfortunately, was neither service- nor detail-oriented. After screwing up the order for the table next to ours, he brought me a rather strange concoction: cream cheese with little pieces of red onion mixed in, with golden raisins and sliced apple on a poppyseed bagel. I had ordered a sesame bagel with cinnamon, honey, raisin, and walnut cream cheese. Go figure. That said, the bagels were tasty enough (more like Bruegger's or Einstein Bros. than Murray's, Ess-a-bagel, or H&H, but still), and it's fun to order an everything bagel as "un bagel everything."

Master Chef vs. Top Chef

PHOTO VIA BBC.CO.UK
I miss a lot of my TV shows. A friend asked recently if I've been watching Big Love, and the sad but obvious answer was no. I briefly considered buying the season pass for Lost on iTunes, but decided I didn't want to shell out actual money for the ultimate wind-up. Top Chef is another show I don't watch anymore - not because it's not on here, but because Belgian TV (on which one channel, Vitaya, appears dedicated exclusively to reality TV) is about three seasons behind.
BBC, however, has its own reality cooking show, or as they call it, "cookery competition" - Master Chef. And I was thinking tonight that I might actually like it better. Here's why:
1. No annoying Padma. Seriously, is she on prescription painkillers? Everything she says is soooo draaaaaawn ouuut. Those commercials where she was dancing were so . . . embarrassing. And she is obviously too skinny to know the first thing about food. I do miss Tom Colicchio, though.
2. I think they make the contestants work harder on Master Chef. Tonight, they sent them to Buckingham Palace to cook for the employees' cafeteria lunch service there. Not an easy job, and not likely to prompt illusions along the lines of "I could do that!" Last week, each contestant went to a well-known London restaurant to carry the lunch service. (Notice that they're not sent during dinner.) This all stands in stark contrast to, say, preparing for a cook-off before a ballgame.
3. There is less drama - the contestants are simply there to cook. Sure, one could argue that this makes the British show less fun to watch. But I can do without - at some point Top Chef began to suffer from Project Runway-itis, i.e., when it becomes obvious that not even the top contender will actually become the celebrity chef (or designer) for whose job they are supposedly vying.
4. Also, MasterChef is on several times per week. And not even at the same time, just to make things more interesting!

La Cuisine and Pudding Rock

PHOTO OF LA CUISINE VIA VINO GUSTO
As you may have noticed, I've been slacking on the blog lately. Perhaps J and I are, quite simply, getting used to Brussels and having fewer Eureka! moments (this excludes our conclusion the other day that being here is a little like Lost - the expats are the plane crash survivors, the locals are The Others, and you're always wondering if there might be more of you, especially ones from New York. But anyway.)

As I've mentioned before, one thing that very seldom fails us here, even when (or particularly when) we're feeling disgruntled or lonely, is the food. In that vein, brief reviews of two restaurants we recently visited:

La Cuisine, Rue Lesbroussart, 85. I've walked by this place many times and found it fetching enough to look at, but then succumbed to the charms of its even-more-beckoning neighbors L'Annexe and Chez Oki. Which, it turns out, is not entirely fair to this little gem of a restaurant, which serves typical Belgo-French (and then some) fare. The night we went, J had mushroom toast and Argentine-style steak, whereas I started with carrot soup, followed by roasted skate and delicious Brussels sprout stoemp (for those who don't know, like me upon arriving here, stoemp is basically mashed potatoes with something else, usually a veggie, mixed in). Dessert: an equally delightful rhubarb tart. All in all, an enjoyable, affordable neighborhoody joint that I would wholeheartedly recommend.

Pudding Rock, Rue du Mail, 76. Like La Cuisine, and most other finds in Brussels, I discovered this place on a walk (in fact, my thrice-weekly walk to French school, which I recently re-started). Went there with some friends for lunch last Friday, and was more than pleasantly surprised: from the tuna tartare amuse bouche to the very last dish of my tasting platter (or, really, tray), I was reminded of much more expensive - and pretentious - restaurants in Manhattan. Which is probably what I like best about Brussels' (and most of Europe's) foodie scene - yes, there are the Michelin-rated institutions, all of which I would like to visit at some point. But in the mean time, a seemingly endless supply of other, more moderately priced restaurants will accommodate my credit-crunched wallet. Although the origins of Pudding Rock's name remain elusive (the interior was vaguely Scottish, the way, say, Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B. line is), the quality of the food was unambiguous. Somehow, the chicon (endive) purée was reminiscent of the cauliflower pannacotta I once had at the Modern. Mmmm.

Antwerp

On a recent Saturday, J and I headed to Antwerp for a leisurely lunch and some sale shopping. (In Belgium, by law, sales are allowed to take place only in the months of January and July.) I had not visited Antwerp since childhood, when I  briefly attended Antwerp International School. I was eager to go back and check out how the city had changed. And at a mere 35 minutes from Gare du Midi for only 7€ RT pp, I knew the journey there would be quick, cheap, and pleasant.

I found Antwerp changed, and impressively so. Throughout town, one finds the omnipresent footprint of the Antwerp 6, as well as a number of spectacular new buildings and cleverly repurposed old structures. And, especially compared to Brussels, the town is exceptionally clean - which I found to be a welcome surprise. Based on Antwerp's appearance alone, it isn't too hard to believe the Flamands are the flourishing half of this country.

After slogging through soft (but unrelenting) rain, J and I settled in at Tabl'eau, a cozy little restaurant near the Schelde. Excited to use the remnants of my Dutch, which has gotten pretty rusty after years of disuse, I ordered 2 glasses of warm kriek. The waitress looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. Turned out it wasn't my Dutch, but rather that warm kriek is not typically served as a beverage. Instead, it was offered here as "coupe warm kriek," or ice cream with warm kriek. (This despite the Bulletin reporting that warm kriek had become the toast of the Brussels Christmas market, after vendors had run out of vin chaud.) I also ordered tongrolletjes, which I felt fairly certain would be (beef) tongue rolls (non-adventurous eaters, keep your comments to yourselves). I was therefore slightly surprised when I ended up with pinwheels of sole, which also turned out to be rather tasty, if not meaty. J ordered salmon risotto and enjoyed his meal without incident.

Chez Oki

One thing that has not failed us since arriving here is the food. Time and again, J and I have felt ourselves soothed by a meal, a snack, a galette at the market. This seems particularly likely to happen when we're questioning the soundness and well-thought-out-ness (both questionable) of our move, lending a completely new perspective on the concept of "comfort eating." Ok, make that bingeing.

Last weekend proved no exception. To celebrate/mitigate the misery of our return, we headed to Chez Oki. It was fantastic. Halfway into the first course, J and I were frantically trying to figure out how to trade up to 5 from the 4-course menu surprise we had selected. But we had no luck flagging down the waiter, so we just decided to come back another time.

Among the offerings: Oki's signature foie gras maki, tuna tartare laid on a bed of 2 decidely French sauces (and it worked), a perfectly prepared steak enclosed in panko breadcrumbs. My lackluster descriptions notwithstanding, this is the kind of food that could restore fusion's kind-of-tacky reputation. (After all, what could possibly go wrong when you combine good French and Japanese cooking?) I also enjoyed witnessing chef Oki (?) deftly evade a demanding patron's request to be told what exactly would constitute the menu: "Madame, that is why it is called a menu surprise."

I'm not very good at taking pictures at restaurants (one reason I will never be a successful blogger), mainly because I forget to before tucking in. Luckily, the ones on their site are illustrative, as well as this little Zen one swiped from Be My Guest.  

In Pursuit of Milk

IMAGE VIA DISCOVERY EDUCATION

We've been back in Brussels for a little less than a week, and I will freely admit I might be losing it a bit. Granted, the jet lag doesn't help (or the excellent selection of movies offered by British Airways - thanks to The Duchess and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2, I did not sleep a wink), which is then exacerbated by the teensy portions of daylight offered by Lady Bruxelles this time of year. (Nothing like waking up at 8AM and thinking it's about half past three.)

But what baffles me the most is how some of the seemingly easiest tasks can prove quite complicated here (in all fairness, the reverse is also true - see, for instance, Health Care). For instance, on Monday, I set out to purchase, among other things, some milk.  But milk was nowhere to be found. The guy who sells it at the market (in unwieldy but eco-friendly glass bottles) was MIA. So were all of the half-full milk bottles at the small GB Contact where I stopped on the way home.

This is the point at which I have to digress and discuss two particular dichotomies (I told you I was losing it). First, full (lait entier or volle melk) vs. half-full (demi-écrémé or halfvolle) milk. (I realize this is leaving out karnemelk altogether, but that's a whole other story - mainly of milk that tastes spoiled.) In the U.S., one has the choice between full (I think), 2%, 1%, and skim milk, as well as some illegal unpasteurized varieties. I suppose that means we're spoiled. Here, I am perfectly happy to opt for half-full, except it is quite frequently sold out. Which is annoying. So when that happened the other day, I decided not to go for the full milk (or for the frighteningly non-refrigerated, ultrapasteurized version), but to try my luck at the larger supermarket. Which brings me to my next dichotomy - that of the small and large urban Bruxellois supermarket.

Again, this is somewhat of a false dichotomy, since, categorically, there exist more than just small and large supermarkets in Belgium. There are also some bodegas (but don't go there for milk). But, outside of the market, my supermarket shopping happens either in a smaller City Delhaize or GB Express, or in a larger Carrefour or Delhaize. The difference is significant - the selection in the larger supermarkets is pretty incredible, whereas the smaller markets are pricier, with more luck-of-the-draw offerings. One large Delhaize (Molière) even had a self-scanning system, with which I of course fell in love. The only problem is that the larger supermarkets are located considerably further away from my apartment, and a trip to one of them virtually guarantees some neck and shoulder pain. (This has led me to consider prematurely buying one of those granny wheely-carts, but I'll save that discussion for another day). However, most of the time one will find what one requires at one of the larger chains.

You can imagine, therefore, my surprise, when I hoofed it all the way to Delhaize Flagey (which apparently was the first "large, American-style" supermarket in Brussels) the other day and found nary a bottle of milk (full or half-full!) in sight. I really wanted to cry. Instead, I gave in and bought the überpasteurized kind. And, in the end, have found it to taste not so bad in coffee.

L'Ultime Atome; Someone Else's Food Blog

Going to l'Ultime Atome tonight for a holiday party. Yes, they have those here, too - company gatherings where everyone behaves shamefully and pretends to "forget" the following day: "OMG I was so drunk!" "OMG me too!"

For some reason, I often get Ultime Atome confused (at least conceptually) with À la Mort Subite and the charmingly named Delirium Tremens. So far, I've only been to Mort Subite, a lovely beer bar close to the equally lovely Galéries Royales Saint-Hubert, where ordering a tripel is a good/bad way to start the evening.

Ultime Atome being tonight's destination, I googled it, which then landed me on a nice Brussels-based, English-language beer blog, which in turn led to a food blog which seems worth following.

Frites vs. Jogging

The image accompanying this post should provide some indication as to how I might vote on this matter. Having temporarily given up on finding a gym (thank you to those who provided helpful suggestions), I've decided to take advantage of the not-yet-freezing weather and run outside every once in a while. I've even found the perfect spot to do so - les Étangs d'Ixelles, or the Ixelles Ponds, which I've decided to stick to after getting lost a couple of times in the Bois de la Cambre (which J has likened to a fairytale forest).

The only problem is that at the foot of the Ponds lies the prototype of a Belgian frites stand - elegantly simple, wonderfully fragrant, smoke coming out of a lead pipe chimney - and surrounded by many a happy Belgian eating frites (and mayonnaise) with a little wooden fork out of a paper cone. So, for each lap I barely manage to finish, I am once again reminded of how I should be eating frites instead of running. Not exactly motivating.

Also, it does not appear that Begians have ever heard of (or might need) the Atkins diet. Everywhere I go, I see people chomping away on a baguette or shoveling down frites. With nary an obese person in sight.

Stuffed in Strasbourg

I had the opportunity to spend most of last week in Strasbourg due to J's work. While he was hanging out with Sarko et al. in the European Parliament, I went shopping with Carla Bruni. Just kidding. Instead, I wandered about the city and checked out a few museums - some of which seemed quite morbidly obsessed with death. I also resisted the temptation to sit in a tea room and gorge myself on pastries the entire time. This task was made easier by the fact that during the day I was usually still full from the previous night's feast. Whether it was flammeküche, jambonneau (pig knuckle), a "salad" composed entirely of ham and cheese, beef tongue, or boudin noir, it was all delicious. To top it all off, we passed through both the Alsace wine region and Champagne on our way home (where, sans réservation, we were spurned by Veuve Clicquot like 2 guys without dates trying to hop a velvet rope in Manhattan).

Macarons Luxembourgeois

Accompanied J on a work trip to Luxembourg City this past weekend. Although my overall impression of the postage-stamp-sized city was . . . average, I cannot get over the macarons at Wengé. The free wifi in Place d'Armes (as well as throughout the city) was also quite nice, not to mention the oursin and muscadet at Brasserie Guillaume. Finally, props to the Mudam (Musée d'Art Moderne Grand-Duc Jean), even though it was in between installations.

Chasing Uni

Thanks, Livia, for sharing this delightful posting on one of my favorite foods, sea urchin. Can't wait to go to Italy . . . . In the mean time, will have to locate a raw bar that features oursin - the adorable French name for uni - which (I believe) means "little bear."

Starbucks-Free Zone

Believe it or not, the entire country of Belgium is almost entirely sans Starbucks.

Thanks, Julie! And welcome to Belgium, too.

And I Got to Eat Matjes

Also known as herring.

Drinking Wine in the Rain

We went to the Châtelain market last night, which involved browsing stalls of produce, cheese, charcuterie and other delights - all without the politically correct smugness of an American greenmarket.

We then did as all the locals (read: expats) do and drank a glass of wine in the rain.

Not sure how high this experience ranks on the ALC (Authentic Local Color) scale, but it certainly was enjoyable.

Contribution from J

J wants me to share with you that the subway (which I have yet to brave) here smells like chocolate croissants. Not only that, but they apparently also play soft rock (J's favorite musical genre, I might add).

Seems like pure torture to me - someone who never wakes up on time to eat breakfast - having to endure a daily commute that not only sounds like Céline Dion, but also smells like pastries.

Ode to the Redhead

There's nothing like leaving a city, not to mention the City, to make you appreciate its charms. I've spent years grumbling about my block's annoyances, including cat-size rats, a condemned corner building that endangers the lives of pedestrians, a drunk singing neighbor permanently perched on the stoop, and no less than 4 different waste management companies that make the nightly rounds.

It never hurt, though, that Momofuku Ssam was just a stone's throw away. Before David Chang became a total rock star, we (4 close friends, J, and I) were lucky enough to celebrate New Year's over some delightful pork butt - with maybe 4 other diners. We actually worried about the sustainability of the restaurant and its insistence on making extra-tasty Chipotle wraps during the day. How things have changed.

It wasn't until the Redhead moved into the old Detour that we had a canteen again. Chef Meg Grace heads up the venture and has spent time at the Modern, as well as Brennan's, in New Orleans, which means she turns out food that soothes my Chinese Southern soul. I've enjoyed most of the menu, although my favorites include the One-Eyed Caesar Salad and Pan-Seared Trout, and the Ginger Snap off the drinks menu. SE: New York has a full review and some delectable pictures.

Mobile Foods

I tried DessertTruck for the first time yesterday evening, and now am hitting myself over the head for doing so belatedly. The "mysterious" J and I shared the Milk Chocolate Mousse, which is described as a "peanut butter cream center topped with caramel popcorn" (as featured in Food & Wine) and the Goat Cheese Cheesecake, "topped with fresh blackberries, rosemary caramel, and a pistachio crisp." Suffice it to say that these descriptions barely do the desserts justice.

Next stop: the competitively parked wafels & dinges. (I hope this answers a certain commenter's question.)

The Bane of My Existence

The ingenious-yet-sadistic momofuku ko online reservation system is driving me, for lack of a better word, bonkers. I am not alone in this; (more luminary) others have expressed similar frustration and despair.

My pathetic ritual goes as follows: I feel boundlessly hopeful every morning around 9:57, only to be inevitably let down by a red X-filled landscape mere minutes later. I have learned to position my mouse in the right quadrant of my screen, ready to pounce on yummy green checkmarks. If said checkmark appears on the grid, I feel elated - only to be casually informed shortly thereafter that someone else has "nabbed" my spot. My productivity ebbs and flows throughout the day as a function of my constant stalking of the site. In short, I am in need of serious help (or a convenient move to Brussels).