Shamrock – November 14th, 2009 - Brussels, Belgium
Travel for the sake of travel is just dumb. You need to have some goals. Before I travel to any new country, I always like to make a list of what I’m looking to accomplish there. I check off the tasks as I travel. Here’s my list from my recent trip from Belgium:
GOAL
Completed/Not Completed
Find curry house, do a review.
Completed (Keep reading)
Make up for the 114 minutes of my life I wasted watching Paul Gross’ pathetic attempt at a war film, by visiting the actual place “Passchendale” is supposed to be about.
Completed (Seriously Paul, 23 mins of combat? I think we owe the 500,000 men that died in the 3rd Battle of Ypres slightly more)
Show off “knowledge” of the French language to girlfriend by ordering “Les Rognons de Veau” at fancy restaurant, recognizing that “Veau” means veal
Completed
Awkwardly learn true meaning of “Les Rognons”
Completed (Although I still disagree with our sommelier’s pick of wine. Bordeaux is better pick when dining on the Loop of Henle )
Submit plan to local authorities to re-colonize the Congo
Not Completed – Plan thwarted by personal morals and international demise of colonialism
Barter a diamond dealer down from the original asking price of 3000 Euro to a measly 500 Euro for a set of earrings. Then walk away before closing the deal.
Completed
Spend a morning gorging self on waffles, chocolate and beer. Take afternoon train to Bastogne while clutching abdomen to prevent evisceration. Find bomb crater in forest. Die in said crater.
Not Completed
Watch helplessly as wind gust blows our 50 Euro note into Bruges’ canal at waterside café
Completed
Ren and I have had some very odd curry experiences. I only wish he could have been with me on this night when I stumbled upon the Shamrock Indian Restaurant in Brussels. I guess the name says it all really. No curry house, unless it’s the cafeteria for Republic of Ireland’s consulate in Mumbai, has any business being named “The Shamrock”. Needless to say, I needed to check it out.
We walked in and were greeted informally by the waitress, who appeared to be Bob Marley’s wife. In tight leather pants. We were quickly ushered over towards the bar where a short Indian man with salt and pepper hair (the owner), who reminded me of my Grade 11 Chemistry teacher, asked if we were a party of 5. This was odd because a) we were clearly a party of 2 and b) it was asked in the King’s English instead of the prerequisite French standard in most Bruxellois restaurants. Regardless, he showed us to a table and then proceeded to engage a neighbouring table in conversation, recounting a complete autobiography. Meanwhile, Bob Marley’s wife chimed in, informing the group that her father was from Mali but that she had grown up in England. It was all very surreal. I wondered which rabbit hole I had fallen down.
The owner took our order. I went with Chicken Shahi Korma while my dining mate had Chicken Tikka Masala. The proprietor successfully pressured us into both rice and naan. We dodged the up-sell on the pappadums but felt an appetizer was in still in order and so asked about samosas.
The samosas were priced at 7 Euro (11 dollars). I assumed this was for a platter of samosas. I was wrong. It was 7 Euro/samosa. Yikes. In fairness, the two samosas that were presented to us were unlike any samosa I’ve seen to date. They looked like massive empanadas and were filled with a cornucopia of ingredients. They had to be eaten with a knife and fork. Each time I dug my fork into the samosa I’d find a new surprise: dehydrated banana, corn, chickpeas, potato, peas, cardamen, mushroom and about 4 or 5 other things which I forgot to commit to memory. It was the culinary equivalent of the magician’s never ending scarf. I almost wondered if the kitchen staff was cleaning out the pantry when they made them. Oddly however, they tasted amazing. For beverages, I had a mango lassi which unfortunately came with ice. My girlfriend enjoyed a nice chai.
Our appetites teased, we waited for some time before our entrées appeared. In that time, the strangeness of Shamrock continued to unfold as a table of drunken American college girls got up from their table mid-meal and made their way towards the washrooms. They never returned. Meanwhile, the owner was regaling customers about stories of “his country”, inviting everyone to visit him there. Between stories he would yell at his staff, jokingly berating them. For some reason, a young female backpacker in the corner of the restaurant started undressing. Where the hell was I? And what was in that samosa I ate?
Our meals arrived, sans naan. I was part way through my Chicken Shahi Korma before I was able to get a hold of Bob Marley’s wife to notify her of the missing naan. She said they were aware the naan was missing and that it was on the way. Hmm. Outside the absence of the bread, the meals were very good. My dish can be best envisioned by imagining heavily curried version of Pizza 73’s BBQ Chicken Pizza mushed up and formed into a stew. Tasty, with just enough pineapple. My girlfriend’s CTM was high quality as well. As I was finishing my meal, I noted our 2 pieces of naan appear on the bar. The waitress grabbed them but soon got distracted by another table. She then misplaced the naan on a side serving table. By the time she realized it, we were done our meals and she had to send the naan back to the kitchen, yelling at the Tandoor attendant the whole time.
As the waitress cleared our plates I pointed out that we hadn’t received the naan and asked her to take it off the bill. She respectfully agreed. Soon after, the owner came over to apologize for the error. I said I didn’t really care as long as I wasn’t charged for it. His response was, “Why would I charge for it? You think I’m crazy?”.
I wasn’t really sure how to answer that question but before I could make an attempt he was shouting across the dining room.
“Annie, bring me 2 Cognac and a shot of Tequila!!”
And with that, we were drinking to the owner’s health. We sipped the Cognac while the owner made a sour face, chewing on the lemon that came with his tequila. Later, as we were waiting for the bill, he filled his glass with more tequila.
My girlfriend had offered to pay for the meal. She was counting out Euro when the owner yelled at me from behind the bar, “In my country, the man pays for the meal!” Having been to Ireland twice, I knew this to be false.
While the food is excellent and the atmosphere insane at Shamrock, I can’t really justify a $20 dollar appetizer plate of samosas. I give the experience a 7/10.
