Oct. 5-7
We’ve been walking in Brussels for a few days now. The city has a touch of the flavor of Paris—but it’s not Paris. It has been pleasant enough to see the place, but next time we’ll go for the real thing.
Our trip here began with a bit of adventure. We asked the lady at the hotel in Liege to phone for a cab to take us to the train station.
When she did, we all got a surprise. There was a problem at the train station and no cabs to be had.
Undaunted, this tiny little lady who walks with her hands folded, announced that she would take us to the station in her car. She called out to the housekeeper to tell her what was up, and we were off.
I didn’t know what to do. What was proper, that is. I offered to pay her the taxi fare. But no, she was having none of that. She just gave us hugs and kisses and wished us bon voyage.
We found that the electric lines were down on the route to Germany so service in that direction was suspended. The taxis were being taken as soon as they showed up outside the station. I presume by people changing plans.
I was glad we weren’t due in Aachen today.
Our train, headed for Ostende by way of Brussels, was running. There was a train parked on the platform when we got there, but it wasn’t boarding. We were early, so I assumed it was ours, due to leave at noon.
Then I happened to see a sign on the next platform that seemed to be for our train. I asked one of the conductors standing by the parked train. His was a train bound for Cologne that was waiting for service to resume.
If the station announced the track change for our train, we didn’t hear it.
We were traveling on a Saturday, and the train was packed. Even the vestibules were crowded.
There were ten or a dozen young women wearing unicorn horns and ears in the center of the car. One of them was wearing an inflatable costume to look like she was riding a cartoon unicorn.
I have no idea what it was about. There was some face painting involved and some walking up and down the aisle of the coach. But it seems a good time was being had by all.
It’s less than an hour from Liege to Brussels and some passengers, including the guy with the bicycle, were getting off at stops in between. So it wasn’t bad.
Our hotel is The Hotel, the tallest building in the neighborhood. Our room is on the fifth floor (American sixth) and we look out over rooftops. It has—I dunno—between 25 and 150 floors in all.
It’s in a high-rent district, too, on Waterloo Boulevard. The shops are devoted to brands like Prada, Armani, and Bulgari.
There is a line that forms outside the Louis Vuitton store. I asked why people were standing outside.
Only a limited number of customers are admitted to the store at one time. According to one lady, that makes it more comfortable for clients.
Google Maps are failing me here. I found a restaurant that looked promising for dinner, but when I tried to follow Google’s instructions to get there, I couldn’t find the street, let alone the place.
That was no matter. We walked down a side alley closed to traffic and full of awnings, where we found La Vigne.
Joanna had a vat of mussels, done in a garlic and cream sauce. I helped her with a few of them, and they were very tasty.
The foie gras, on the other hand, was too exotic for me to pass up.
I can’t remember, but must have tried it before, somewhere, sometime. I couldn’t remember how to eat it. I started to put it on bread when the toast arrived.
The combination of the savory meat paste and the sweet onion marmalade was terrific. It was just a small brick on the plate like faded Spam. It was mostly made of fat so it was very filling.
We shared the house red.
We had gotten there just in time. They close at three and don’t open for dinner till six.
Most of the better restaurants here do that. I’ve encountered that in other European cities, but here it’s damned near universal.
We have found a few places with continuous service, so we aren’t condemned to eat at every chef’s convenience.
We took a detour on the way back to The Hotel. Our neighborhood is on top of a hill that overlooks much of the city. There is a square with a Ferris wheel called The View near the edge of the hill.
The Palais de Justice is also there. The Palais is probably impressive. It has a dome with gilt highlights that almost rivals Les Invalides in Paris.
But right now it is shrouded in scaffolding, and there’s graffiti on some of the lower walls.
The plaza is ringed by several military monuments. One is dedicated to the people of Britain for their sacrifice in Belgium during the First World War. There is a Belgian World War monument and another to “the glory of the Belgian infantry.”
That lunch stayed with us for the rest of the day. We went out for a snack later and stopped at another place in the same alley, News Cafe, which has continuous service.
We decided to take dessert. We shared a crepe and the house red.
Sunday we got up late. We decided that $60 for the hotel buffet breakfast was a bit overmuch, so we struck out in the same direction as the day before in search of a reasonable alternative.
Just up the street from the alley there’s a traffic circle with a Carrefour Express, where we bought fruit and yogurt, and a bakery named Paul, with excellent coffee and pastry.
We’ve been going there every morning since.
It was still raining off and on, and the wind was kicking up besides, making the outdoors a little too brisk for long walks and exploration. So we hid much of the day from the weather.
Late in the afternoon, the weather almost cleared and we went back to restaurant alley to another place we had marked the day before. Al Piccolo Mondo serves fancy Italian, but it was closed till six.
We didn’t want to wait two hours to eat and remembered that News Cafe, right across the street, has continuous service.
Joanna was able to get some decent lamb chops, savory and fairly tender. I wanted to try entrecote, which on this and other menus is translated as “Irish prime rib.” I don’t think of the Irish as cattle raisers, or big beef eaters, so I was curious to see what was Irish about it.
I said rouge in the center, and even though it was a very thin cut, it arrived plenty pink enough. But it was easily the toughest prime rib I have ever bitten.
It didn’t taste bad, but it was hard work to chew and riddled with gristle that I couldn’t eat at all.
I think the bottle of Cotes du Rhone was the best part of the meal.
Monday dried up enough to let us get out to see some of the sights.
We wanted to see the big square with the famous little peeing boy. Google told us (correctly) that it’s close to Le Grand Place, which is the site of the city hall.
I started following Google instructions and quickly came to a dead end. It wasn’t too far to walk back to the hotel, where we asked the concierge for a map and directions.
My Google instructions were entirely backwards.
Once we were on the right way, things got interesting. We met several soldiers on patrol with rifles. We walked down another side street that was closed to traffic.
We passed a landmark church, Notre Dame du Sablon. I learned later that Sablon is the name of this area of town.
Shops and bars line the plaza downhill from the church.
We crossed a narrow street clogged with tourists. That might be interesting. Let’s take a look on our way back.
We went a block farther and I checked the map. We had gone too far. That was the street where we needed to turn, Rue de l’Etuve.
But there was no sign of a large square or a great fountain. But it was clear that we were getting close. Every second store seemed to be a souvenir shop, all selling identical junk, including paperweights and dish towels with images of the Manneken Pis.
The fountain isn’t in a square at all. It is in an alcove at the corner to two small streets, diagonally across from a dive called Manneken Pis, which may be the most appropriate name ever for a beer bar.
I enjoyed the bar more than the statue. I had a Palm on draft.
The fountain is also next to the Manneken Pis chocolate store.
The whole thing is much smaller than photos had led me to expect.
People crowd around it, taking selfies or photos of each other. As with the Infant of Prague or the Emerald Buddha in Bangkok, I expected it to be bigger.
What people see now is a late replica, installed in the 1960s in place of the original, which was put here in the early 1600s.
The Grand Place, up Rue de l’Etuve in the other direction, is pretty impressive. It’s a rectangle surrounded by 17th century buildings decorated with statuary and Latin inscriptions. Several facades are trimmed in gold.
I have a feeling that some of the statues and mottos are of later date. Many celebrate republican virtues. It seems highly unlikely that the Dukes of Brabant would heartily embrace those sentiments.
The square is only a few hundred meters from the Manneken.
On the way, Rue de l’Etuve becomes Rue de Charles Buls. Or Karel Bulsstraat, in Dutch.
A short colonnade covers a monument to Everard t’Serclaes, who in the 1350s led a surprise attack that drove out the Count of Flanders who had captured Brussels.
The monument was put up on the 19th century. Several parts, principally Everard’s arms and knees are still bright and shiny because people rub them for good luck.
We had better timing later at Al Piccolo Mondo. We arrived at 5:45. There’s a comical rigidity about some of these customs.
They sat us at a table, but no one came even to take a drink order till six.
Joanna had a nice spaghetti alla vongole. It could have used a little more flavor. But then, you can’t judge by me; I consider oregano a vegetable
I was in the mood for veal. All they had was organ meat. I went for the kidney instead of the liver.
The rognon de veau with bearnaise was a bit chewy but interesting enough. It definitely needed salt.
The house red was very good. Joanna went through nearly a glassful by herself.
Overall, the meal was OK, but the dishes were not distinguished enough to justify the price, which was nearly 50 bucks for the two dishes alone.
This is getting overlong.
I’ll recap our trip to see the Bruegels in a later wrapup in a few days.
We’re on a train right now (Thursday) for Schiphol where we have an early flight tomorrow morning to Newark.
Stay well, everyone. And remember the little peeing guy: Size doesn't matter.
Harry
October 10
Harry: That was better than when my wife and I were in Rome in 1973 and there was a real Peeking Tom looking into the communal bathtub.
I threatened him to an inch of his life. Only time I was a real tough guy!
Best to you two.
October 12
October 12
Just change the names to protect the innocent! (Remember “Dragnet”?)
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