What I have to show for myself from Brussels — part 1

So, to be com­pletely hon­est, for some rea­son for another, I don’t have a whole lot of pic­tures from my stay in Brus­sels. I can tell you, how­ever, that I did eat really well. So this will be a nice lit­tle test to see how much of it I can actu­ally recall, no thanks to the copi­ous amounts of alco­hol, but also since I don’t have much pho­to­graphic evi­dence to jog my memory.

Like the lit­tle West African cafe, L’horloge du Sud where I’m pretty sure I ate Sene­galese cui­sine for the first time. There was the poulet in a bright cit­rus sauce, not unlike a Cuban mojo, except with a round tart­ness and not so sweet. I’d go back for the piri piri-like chili oil that I couldn’t stop eat­ing, despite cough­ing from its airy, yet intense heat that shot to the back of the throat. It brought tears to my eyes.

Then there was the red wine-braised veal short ribs I made as a thank you for my gra­cious host. Went on a lit­tle adven­ture to a fan­tas­tic butcher called Jack O’Shea to track down these beau­ti­ful short ribs. It was rain­ing. I got lost. Cabs were taken. [Read more…]