Brussels, like so many European cities, is best experienced in person rather than through photographs. The Guild Houses that line Grand Place are stunning, yet I most appreciated them in the waning hours of my final afternoon, while finally sitting down for my one and only non-on-the-go meal at a warm and sunny outdoor table.
So where are the photos of the pots and pots of moules frites I should have posted? Spoiler: no mussels in Brussels for me! I have savored the briny pots in cafes on the Normandy coast and in the village of Brugge; and I will prepare garlicky bowls of the beautiful bivalves at home whenever we are of the mind. I have also rather enjoyed Konijn met Bier, another Belgian dish of rabbit stewed in Kriek, a cherry beer, so no snaps of braised bunny, either.
Instead, voila! The Belgian version of my beloved French rotisserie chicken. (The presentation included the knife.) Dare I write that it was more sumptuous than the chicken from my favorite traiteur in Paris’ 6eme? Of course, that little bowl of mushroom cream sauce helped, too. I noted that the tabs of butter were labeled with not only the name of the monastery where produced, but also with an expiration date. Did I not mention earlier how much the Belgians adore their butter? Truly a Grand finale in a Place I would visit again.
Finally, Manneken Pis. I apologize, Brussels, but I failed to find the whimsy in the “little boy who pees.” There is virtually no escape from him, either. From this…
…and even this at the airport. And so much more.
Thanks to the politically correct, there is now Jeanneke Pis. I am ashamed that I waded through the tourist restaurant zone…
…to not only see, but to photograph, Manneken’s female counterpart. This fountain is behind a fence and is elevated to offer the visitor, perhaps, a better view?
But for a palate cleanser, one final postcard. Hotel de Ville, the Brussels City Hall.
Au revoir, Bruxelles. Until we meet again.