Gunternation

Yes, I got a job offer today! And that is a nice looking pepper (at the food market in Howth on Sunday).

Friday night Bill and I popped in for a quick dinner at a downtown bistro. We both had Italian-themed meals; they were tasty and hit the spot. A near-by table did not fare as well. Noting some distress, I used my keen eavesdropping skills to discover the problem was the mushy peas. The mushiness of the peas was not the issue; mushy peas demand a level of mush. But these mushy peas contained a disturbing ingredient–garlic.

The spokeswomen of the duo was not satisfied with holding high the offending ramekin while interrogating the waitress about the unusual presence of flavor. She had to ask for the manager, who explained that yes, their mushy pea preparation did include some garlic butter. “Oh! But that’s just not done!” the diner exclaimed. The manager apologized obligatorily, and asked if they had enjoyed the rest of their food. “All I could taste was garlic,” the second women said, “I got something familiar so I could trust it.” She had been betrayed. “We don’t like garlic,” the first woman said gravely. Thankfully her spirits weren’t completely broken by the aromatic bulb, as she was able to laugh after the manager left, exclaiming gleefully, “It’s like putting it in dessert!” I was tempted to tell her about garlic ice cream, but really, that would have been cruel.

Now, we all know garlic can be used to excess, but I doubt a pat of garlic butter would ruin some peas. Classic food items can be a minefield, but you can’t blame a restaurateur for wanting to subtly update a food favorite. Also, it’s hard for our Emerilized taste buds to imagine being shocked by a little garlic butter. But this is Ireland, and some things are just not done.

After dinner we attended a concert of Szymanowski, Dvorak and Bartok at the National Concert Hall. Szymanowski was a contemporary of Bartok. Dvorak and Bartok are some of Bill’s favorites. The RTE orchestra is excellent. We hope to take advantage of their rich performance schedule.

Tex Mex was a common after-church lunch in Austin for us. Whether at Chuy’s or Mesa Rosa or La Margarita or any number of other at least decent places, we knew we could find enchiladas and tacos to assuage our cravings. Not so here. The Epicurean Food Hall near the corner of Middle Abbey and Lower Liffey has a pretty authentic Tex Mex place, but that is the only place we’ve dared to try. And unlike Austin, every corner here does not have a Tex Mex restaurant. Howth boasts of a Tex Mex joint called El Paso, though, and we’ve even seen a show on a public access channel about it where they talked of importing chiles and using authentic recipes. So, our Tex Mex cravings in full force, we set out on Sunday after church for Howth.

Our cravings weren’t assuaged, and my wallet was much lighter than it would’ve normally been after lunch in Austin. Chips and dips, which included a basket of warm chips and four pots with sour cream, queso, salsa and ranchero sauce, was €13. $20 for chips and salsa, something we’re used to being free, and the salsa and queso weren’t that good. For mains Sharon had a chimichanga and I a beef taco. Each was around €19 ($27!). Sharon pronounced the chimichanga “mild, vaguely familiar, but not outright offensive.” My taco was at best weird: a soft flour tortilla smeared with refried beans, topped with a crunchy flour tortilla filled with stewed beef and cheese. It was like a haute cuisine version of that double-decker taco from Taco Bell. Again, not offensive, but neither was it Tex Mex. All in all it seemed to me that this was Tex Mex from someone who has only read about Tex Mex and not actually tasted it. I left with a new dream to open an authentic Tex Mex restaurant in Dublin.

Sharon’s friend Helen, who is in Austin on a business trip, is bringing back to us dried chiles procured by our friend Lisa. Soon I will be making pork and potato tacos (tacos de puerco y papas al guajillo) and corn tortillas, and the cravings will be silenced for a time. Until they cry out for tamales.

Driving into Brussels on the airport bus, we felt like we could be approaching any American city. We were in a left-drive vehicle on the right side of the road, rolling past sprawling office complexes, shopping centers, car dealerships, and a nuclear power plant. The city itself is an interesting integration of history and modernity. Skyscrapers loom on the horizon when viewing the back garden of our B&B, but out the front door is a narrow street of homes built in the late 1800s. The massive front door is unlocked by a thumb print reader. Efficient, orange trains whisked us below cobblestone streets.

Once in the city, however, we felt that we had arrived someplace different from whence we came. Someplace old. Everybody talks about the Grande Place in Brussels, and it is indeed spectacular. It is the very definition of super-crazy-ornate. Complex carvings and statues cover the stone buildings, their fantasy-castle spires puncturing the sky. These buildings date from the 15 to 18th C. In addition to the town hall, the square is bordered by imposing guild houses. These houses were built during times of great prosperity when various trade guilds wanted to be present in Brussels to influence trade and city administration; these huge structures were built to show their wealth and influence. Oh, to be a baker in 17th century Brussels! (Seriously, this is what the WGA should be striking for. Internet residuals and a gothic club house.) Some additional buildings housed royal administration, while some were private residences. Although many buildings were updated or restored over the centuries, the overall architectural style has been maintained, leading UNESCO to praise the square’s “remarkably homogeneous body of public and private buildings, dating mainly from the late 17th century. The architecture provides a vivid illustration of the level of social and cultural life of the period in this important political and commercial centre.”

The street is actually named rue des Bouchers (Butcher Street) and Beenhouwersstraat. Every street in Brussels has both a French and Flemish name (and the signs are pretty good from our experience). We were headed toward a restaurant we’d read about called Aux Armes de Bruxelles. We found the restaurant on a street mobbed by competing restaurants, all with almost identical menus on placards out front, and very friendly maître d’s who were ready to describe their paella, show you an English menu, and promise your first drink free. There must have been 20 restaurants in a row, all eerily empty inside with fires blazing sadly. The Armes was the only restaurant that did not have a caller, and the only one with a cheerful buzz of customers.

We chose the Armes and the food was quite good. After dinner, as we walked back through the gauntlet, one maître d’ called out to us, and then said, “Oh, I remember you.” I could tell he was thinking, “Yes, I remember. Tonight I will see your face as my children cry with hunger in their beds!”

Our host said she does not recommend these secondary restaurants because she fears the seafood is not fresh. She also said these front men have become less aggressive; they used to grab people! I don’t understand how so many seemingly identical restaurants can thrive on a single block. I would open a restaurant and tell everyone, “Mussels, who wants mussels? Have an enchilada!” Because a Tex-Mex restaurant in Brussels would be awesome. Although I admit, the mussels I had were gorgeous.