Land of the Waffle

By Elizabeth Johnstone

We had a successful trip to Bruges in March 2012.  One of the best aspects of the trip was Eurostar.  I am a nervous traveller: I love being overseas, but I hate getting there.  Eurostar is, by far, the least bad option for me.  Travelling by train – rightly or wrongly - does not worry me, and the Channel Tunnel section only lasts twenty minutes or so.  And London to Brussels takes only a fraction over two hours!

So when a Finnish Mensan friend and her musical partner announced that they were playing a concert in Brussels on a Sunday afternoon in May, it seemed too good an opportunity to waste. 

Travelling on my own, I played safe and went for the ultra-standard option of the Ibis hotel chain.  The Ibis “Grand-Place” must have been named by the same people who name budget airline airports.  I booked a Cresta Holidays package through my local Co-op Travel and The Rough Guide to Belgium was my vade mecum. The ticket to Brussels South includes a transfer to other major Brussels stations so, after an uneventful journey (time underground obsessively noted by me as 18 minutes), I exited Brussels Central Station through a shopping centre and found my hotel within a couple of minutes’ walk.

The hotel was perfectly acceptable – clean, cosy and quiet, despite looking out onto the busy Marché aux Herbes.  Breakfast is always a treat on these trips, and I enjoyed hearty ham and cheese on wholegrain bread followed by French-style croissants and pains au chocolat.  The self-service juice and coffee from a machine was a slight negative.

On the Saturday evening, I met up with my friends and we enjoyed a bowl of noodles at one of the city’s many ethnic restaurants.  I returned to my hotel via an ice cream kiosk in the pedestrianised area and this French teacher was startled to be charged “un euro nonante”. I caught the second half of the Eurovision Song Contest.  Poor old Engelbert.  He never stood a chance against that bloc voting.  I expect the Greek Finance Minister was relieved that his country did not win.

The next morning, my friends were busy rehearsing, so I did a little sightseeing.  I walked up to the Cathedral which has lost a lot of its internal ornamentation but is still an imposing sight in its elevated position.  It is on the edge of the Upper Town, built almost literally to look down on the medieval warren of streets around the Grand-Place in the Lower Town.

Before anyone starts tut-tutting at my bad spelling of Grand-Place, I am sure you remember that grand comes from the Latin grandis which, as a 3^rd declension adjective, has the same form in the masculine and feminine.  The “e” was added later by analogy with 1^st declension adjectives.  But you knew that!

Sunday lunch was a couple of fantastic salades composées with a waffle buried somewhere on the plate and a generous helping of people-watching from our vantage point near the Bourse.

The concert took place later that afternoon at the Finnish Seamen’s Mission.  And what a treat!  Spanish music for solo piano/piano and soprano.  We were transported to Andalucía, not least by the 30° heat outside.  At the same time, we were in an outpost of the Land of a Thousand Lakes.  The cafeteria had a grocery section where homesick Finns could stock up on such essentials of life as salty liquorice and Koskenkorva vodka.

All too soon, the concert was over, the ladies changed out of their fabulous ballgowns and it was time for us to part ways. They set off on the next leg of their tour and I headed back to the city centre.  On a warm Sunday evening, the scene was animated and colourful.  I dined on some upmarket fast food, featuring delicious chips, one of Belgium’s gifts to world gastronomy.  I followed this with a fresh, hot waffle which melted in the mouth.

My train did not leave until lunchtime the next day, so I mooched around again with my camera after breakfast.  The magnificent buildings of the Grand-Place stood out against a Mediterranean blue sky, although they were partly obscured by a massive stage put up for the Jazz Festival.  More by luck than judgement, I ended up at the Manneken Pis.  The statue is tiny!  It is dwarfed by the oversized replicas made out of chocolate etc in the neighbouring shops.

You will not be surprised to learn that I wandered round a supermarket but my small suitcase could only accommodate a couple of jars of compôte and a box of chocolate truffles. 

I had conscientiously worked my way through the major Belgian food groups. As well as chips and waffles, I enjoyed a glass of Leffe Blonde and a free chocolate courtesy of a shop near the hotel.  Mussels next time! Belgium is truly foodie heaven, a marriage of Flemish heartiness and French finesse.

The return trip was uneventful, except for extra French security checks by personnel who got on at Lille and got off again at Calais-Fréthun.  This added nine minutes to our journey.  We entered the Tunnel from a standing start, instead of barrelling in at 100 mph or whatever, so the transit time was 20 minutes. 

What? Obsessive? Me?

At St Pancras International, I was savvy enough to exit the train quickly to get through passport and security.  I crossed the road to Kings Cross, caught my local train (from Platform 9, not 9 ¾) and walked through my front door less than an hour later.

This trip was primarily to meet friends and enjoy the concert, but I plan to go back and have a closer look at the museums and the EU quarter. 

Or maybe I’ll get no further than a cornet of chips and a beer in the Grand-Place...

First published in VISA 104 (August 2012)