Belgian Dinner
It's time to go to Belgium again. I leave Tuesday and fly overnight, arriving early Wednesday morning. This makes Wednesday a really long day in the office and, just to round it off, it will end with a dinner. Belgians like their food, but instead of expressing that love in quantity (like we do here) they prefer to use time as a measure. Dinner typically lasts four fucking hours.
The first thing you notice is that service is truly a foreign concept here. There will be two waitresses to serve at least twenty tables. They're not operating on tips so there's little incentive for them not to treat you like excreta. You start with a drink - I always order diet coke (or coke light, as they call it) because it's American and it annoys them. After about fifteen minutes the waitress returns with a glass the size of a urine sample cup (you know - the one that you fill will one spurt) containing diet coke and one solitary ice cube. It's gone in one swallow, but so has the waitress and you can forget about getting a refill for about an hour. You think I'm exaggerating? Bloody well try it!
I'm not saying I miss the waitress coming up three milliseconds after I sit down and saying "my name is Tiffany, I'll be your server tonight, can I get you guys anything to drink?" but I really like the man-sized drink I get a minute later, full of ice, and the constant free refills.
There are at least four courses in a Belgian dinner, but don't worry about putting on weight. Here's how the evening goes:
1. Amuse bouche. Something tiny to nibble. You didn't order this, but tough shit - it means they don't have to bring you anything for another hour. This chair has no cushion - not a good sign.
2. Appetizer. Looks like someone sneezed on a shrimp. Takes about an hour to arrive. I'm bored shitless already. Starting to get uncomfortable on this chair.
3. Main course. Something really filling like, perhaps, breast of sparrow. Served with three miniature vegetables and a splash of cream sauce that makes it look like someone wanked off over it. Losing feeling in my legs.
4. Tiny sorbet. To cleanse the palate. Is this a joke? Can't they get a sodding move on?
5. Dessert. Recipe includes chocolate. Tastes excellent, but is the size of a large ice cube. Would be OK if they brought you thirty of them. Where's that fucking waitress? I'm tired and I just want to get the fuck out of here.
6. Coffee. Another thirty minutes. They bring tiny biscuits with it. I eat most of them before my colleagues overcome their politeness and reach for a second one. Just bring the fucking check, OK? What do you mean you don't take American Express? Motherfucker!
I've heard it said that Belgian food is excellent, and in many places it is. In fact one of my top three best ever dinners was here (the other two in Holland and Mexico City, by the way). But there's a lot of unimpressive stuff too. Steak is risky - a lot of times I want to ask for the animal's death cerificate because I'm convinced it says "Died peacefully in sleep of old age." The quality of the restaurant is usually inversely proportional to the length of the menu. In the good places there's no menu; the chef just comes out and tells you what he's thinking of cooking for you tonight, and if there's anything you don't fancy he'll suggest something else.
Still, it doesn't really matter on the first night of the trip - I'll have been awake for more than thirty hours by dinner time and absolutely nothing is worth spending four hours sitting down for by then. Big Mac anyone?
Copyright 2007 Edward Bison
The first thing you notice is that service is truly a foreign concept here. There will be two waitresses to serve at least twenty tables. They're not operating on tips so there's little incentive for them not to treat you like excreta. You start with a drink - I always order diet coke (or coke light, as they call it) because it's American and it annoys them. After about fifteen minutes the waitress returns with a glass the size of a urine sample cup (you know - the one that you fill will one spurt) containing diet coke and one solitary ice cube. It's gone in one swallow, but so has the waitress and you can forget about getting a refill for about an hour. You think I'm exaggerating? Bloody well try it!
I'm not saying I miss the waitress coming up three milliseconds after I sit down and saying "my name is Tiffany, I'll be your server tonight, can I get you guys anything to drink?" but I really like the man-sized drink I get a minute later, full of ice, and the constant free refills.
There are at least four courses in a Belgian dinner, but don't worry about putting on weight. Here's how the evening goes:
1. Amuse bouche. Something tiny to nibble. You didn't order this, but tough shit - it means they don't have to bring you anything for another hour. This chair has no cushion - not a good sign.
2. Appetizer. Looks like someone sneezed on a shrimp. Takes about an hour to arrive. I'm bored shitless already. Starting to get uncomfortable on this chair.
3. Main course. Something really filling like, perhaps, breast of sparrow. Served with three miniature vegetables and a splash of cream sauce that makes it look like someone wanked off over it. Losing feeling in my legs.
4. Tiny sorbet. To cleanse the palate. Is this a joke? Can't they get a sodding move on?
5. Dessert. Recipe includes chocolate. Tastes excellent, but is the size of a large ice cube. Would be OK if they brought you thirty of them. Where's that fucking waitress? I'm tired and I just want to get the fuck out of here.
6. Coffee. Another thirty minutes. They bring tiny biscuits with it. I eat most of them before my colleagues overcome their politeness and reach for a second one. Just bring the fucking check, OK? What do you mean you don't take American Express? Motherfucker!
I've heard it said that Belgian food is excellent, and in many places it is. In fact one of my top three best ever dinners was here (the other two in Holland and Mexico City, by the way). But there's a lot of unimpressive stuff too. Steak is risky - a lot of times I want to ask for the animal's death cerificate because I'm convinced it says "Died peacefully in sleep of old age." The quality of the restaurant is usually inversely proportional to the length of the menu. In the good places there's no menu; the chef just comes out and tells you what he's thinking of cooking for you tonight, and if there's anything you don't fancy he'll suggest something else.
Still, it doesn't really matter on the first night of the trip - I'll have been awake for more than thirty hours by dinner time and absolutely nothing is worth spending four hours sitting down for by then. Big Mac anyone?
Copyright 2007 Edward Bison
posted by Mr Bison at
1:24 PM
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