Belga Cafe

I'm glad I could take Belga Cafe seriously, because after a glance at the menu, my juvenile linguistic humor made me question if I'd be able to make it (in addition to the fact that a bowl of mussels--the equivalent of sea squirrels in their ubiquity--started at $18). Anyway, Belga Cafe serves items like Kip and Krab Sigaar, Waterzooi Van Vis, and Kazen Kroketten, which to a French major--who looks down on Belgium's "other" language, Flemish--seems like drunken culinary jibber jabber terms with too many extraneous vowels.

I have to admit, though, it didn't take long for me and my dining partner to realize the food was too serious to be offended by jabs at its vowel count. It's no-nonsense, high-class, well-presented bar food. And by bar food, I mean sophisticated Belgian brasserie bar food that's meant to be enjoyed over fancy Belgian beer, cast iron pots full of crustacean remains, and artisanal mayonnaise.

So first we got beer. I got what Mike had--he said it tasted like hops; I thought it tasted like meat. But it tasted like something bold. Like two vowels in the middle of a four-syllable word or leiderhosen (wrong country).. but something remarkable. With both beers I ordered, I got a glass that was made especially for that beer. However, this was a good indication of the premium on presentation that was to come.


To satisfy my own attempts to be clever, I'd like to coin a phrase for my own benefit for the outing Wednesday evening. I'll call it a nondate. It had the trappings of a date: we were two people having dinner, talking, laughing, splitting delicious plates of food. But, it was not a date: there was no awkwardness, no coy explorations of romantic interest, no tiptoeing around past or future (aspirational) relationships, no tiresome circus acts of trying to be overly clever or impressive. It really was fantastic. We were able to talk food and love in between delicious bites; what a nexus. It was especially valuable because not only did it all have the benefits of a nondate, it also proffered the rewards of a working dinner, each of us being able to discuss common relationship/dating inquiries from the other genders' perspective...like a romantic Rosetta stone.

Anyway, dinner was good too. We split this amazing Warm Ajuin Taartje, a warm onion tart with a softish tart bottom that was smothered in soft, carmelized onion and sliced cherry, heirloom tomatoes, covered in a crisp netting of cheese, and finished off with dressed arugula. Around this teetering tower was a "sweet olive oil sorbet," which was just drizzled olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I was ready to eat olive oil sorbet by the scoop, but apparently it was deconstructed or had both melted and evaporated.


We devoured it, and it was too delicate to last long. Regarding dinner, I will present dinner abstract, then explain it in specifics.


There's something so charming in mussels' gloss: it's such a regal presentation for a food that also answers to "bivalve molluscs." I ordered mussels they way they should be ordered: in French. Moules marinières are classic at-the-plage food to eat with frites while pondering whether to be downtrodden Sartre-like by your existential crisis or be afflicted by your spleen after reading some poetry by Baudelaire.


Mine had white wine, shallots, parsley, and garlic. I realized clearing away layers of mussels to reach a bit of liquid in which to dip crusty bread is one of my little indulgences. We also each had a cone of frites, hot, crisp, and salty, and begging to be dipped in our little cup of mayonnaise.


I was always making forward progress: finishing one beer to get another, eating more mussels and creating more dipping room, and moving one step closer--one mollusk at a time--toward dessert.


Mike ordered Mussels “Rodenbach,” with red ale, bacon, and asparagus. It's really the perfect to-chat-over food: hands-on, can be enjoyed slowly even while you're eating fast (you can only make so much progress at a time), and easy to share.

Then we ordered dessert. This dessert should have been served atop an exquisite Belgian lace tablecloth or should have been painted by Jan van Eyck or received some honorary award from NATO or have been applauded by an audience of appreciate waffles. We ordered a Warme Krieken Taart, which was a soft almost cake served with sour cherries atop the rim of the cake, accompanied by a spiced yogurt sorbet and cherry beer gelee. But interspersed among all that was an elderberry liquor sauce, thin sticks of meringue cookies (that's a guess), a thin slice of a pineapple/mangoish fruit, and spicy wisps of cookie emerging like plumes from the sorbet.



It was remarkably detailed, but had so many components, it allowed for a great game of "how does one compose the best, most balanced bite." See Mike's attempt:


Let the nondates continue!