Can’t believe it’s been 20 years! Memories of Brussels
“Moules et frites,” I said, snapping the menu closed. It was Dec 30, 2023. I was in St. Veronus, a Belgian restaurant in Peterborough recalling my arrival in Brussels on the same day 20 years earlier.
I wasn’t a backpacking through Europe or Thailand kind of kid. Instead, I spent my 20s finding meaningful work that would pay the bills. So when I landed in law school in Victoria in my late 30s, I seized a chance to take a co-op work term as a ‘stage’ or intern at the European Commission. While it seemed a bit reckless even then to be unpaid for four months, I also knew I was finally emotionally ready to live away from everyone and everything familiar.
In those days, the cello my father had made me was my constant companion. I sawed away as a solid sectional player in Victoria’s community orchestra and had joined the Amateur Chamber Music Players, an international list of like-minded people who would host other players or organize playing opportunities while you travelled. Once I’d made the Brussels decision, I emailed the handful of cellists on the ACMP list and asked who had living space they could rent me. One wrote me right back - a cellist whose husband played bassoon. They were active in the amateur music scene, and had a flat in their house in the Brussels inner suburb of Schaerbeek. She’d give it to me for cheap and we’d play duets as time allowed. And we did!
With housing and my work arranged, I left Canada with a cello, a laptop, some clothes, a stomach fluttering with nerves, and an openness I hadn’t felt before. Without much prep, I wanted to be a sponge and even hoping I would move forward in my stalled attempts to learn French.*
What I hadn’t given much thought to was the food. I guess if you’d asked me, I would have expected the food to be similar to French food - saucy, rich, gorgeous, served in small quantities by intimidating waiters. I would have been wrong. Brussels is not Paris.
Let’s talk about frites. Friterie are to Brussels as hot dog vendors are to Toronto: inexpensive, street-side, ubiquitous. But we’re not talking garden variety fries-and-ketchup kind of fries. No. These are hand cut, twice fried, bits of crispy potatoey goodness, served hot from the deep fryer and then - and here’s the fun part - dipped in your choice of 15+ sauces. Many are mayo-based but not exclusively. Here’s what Wikipedia lists: curry ketchup, aïoli, tartar sauce, cocktail Whisky sauce, American, Samuraï, Andalouse, Riche, Mexican, Orientale, Brazil, Béarnaise, or Diablo. Each one thick and luxurious enough to load up on your fry so it functions a bit like a spoon. Sweet-toothed people have their run of Belgian chocolate shops but these friterie were like heaven to the person with a salt-and-fat tooth. And you don’t get much more salt-and-fat toothed than me.
The mussels they traditionally serve with in Belgian restaurants are a little more pricey so I didn’t get to enjoy them as much on my volunteer's salary. But those fries….
So yes, being confronted with a Belgian menu at St. Veronus in Peterborough this past Christmas holiday brought back happy memories. I had no choice but to order the Belgian frites with all the sauces — mayonnaise, spiced Chimay Red ketchup, sweet curry dip, chili garlic mayonnaise, and Dijon mayonnaise — followed by moules in a sauce made with De Koninck Special Ale, roasted garlic, blue cheese, lardon, and cream. With a side salad of course. And a flight of Belgian drafts. It was one of the best meals I’ve had in a long time.
I’d return to St. Veronus - and to Brussels - in a heartbeat.
Assuming I continue to have a heartbeat if I keep eating this way:-)
* For more on this aspect of the trip, read my piece on my French language skills (or lack thereof) here. For more about the trip generally, some of my emails home are on my blog starting here.
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