STICK THAT IN YOUR GAULOISE AND SMOKE IT

Belgian Christmas dinner: fricadelle et frites

I am on my high horse. After the shock of that appalling assault on British cooking published by Larousse, I have now had to defend my national cuisine (pardon my French) not just against attacks from the Frogs, which I am used to, since they are a bunch of drink-sodden gastrofascist popinjays, but to the nation that invented the fricadelle, God help us, and whose national dish is CHIPS - the sodding Belgians!

I usually counter-attack with "And when did you last visit a restaurant in the UK?" to which the reply is usually "Oh about 25 years ago," or "I never have but I stayed with a family in Bury on my exchange trip 30 years ago". Get with the programme, you guys. Of course none of them watch the delightful culinary shows on BBC. They know of Jammy Oliveurre but that's about it - whatever he might tell you to the contrary, Gordon Ramsay is totally unknown on this side of the channel, ditto Michel Roux Junior - even his dad Albert is better known in the UK than in his native France. Alain Ducasse, they know. The Troisgros brothers, they know. But Mention Raymond Blanc, or Ray White, as he is known to Oxfordshire locals, and you will be met with a blank stare and a Gallic shrug. And n'en parlons pas des Motards Poilus.

Les Motards Poilus: I can't decide which one I fancy most

I have grown quite addicted to The Hairy Bikers' latest series Best of British, and have got quite emotional at their Galahad-like quest for True British Food. I feel moved to launch a crusade of my own on this side of the Channel, to defend our admittedly once appalling cooking against the slings and arrows of outrageous Frenchmen. I daren't mention Joan of Arc, as they might accuse us of doing to her what we used to do to our meat. I don't think they'd have minded so much if we'd just seared her quickly on both sides rather than burning her to a crisp.

At least the faggots under J of A's stake were British

I always rise to the defence of my homeland at this time of year when the Best of British Food is about to hit our tables. A British Christmas Dinner is second to none - and any Poles out there can just zip it. Carp! Oh puhlease. My own Christmas table usually displays a combination of British and French produce. Home made sausage rolls on Christmas Eve fill the house with that divine smell of Christmas baking, as well as home made mince pies - OK I cheat a bit with the pastry, but the mincemeat was prepared a year ago when heavy snow prevented me from getting out to Stonemanor, and has been boozily macerating since then. I will probably keel over just taking the lid off.

I haven't quite decided on the starter: Assiette baltique is one possibility: Scottish smoked salmon, red or black lump eggs, blinis and sour cream, with lemon quarters and Polish horseradish or chrzan. Then again, I do have a weakness for foie gras - I know, I know, but it's only once a year. Less said about that the better.

No really, I couldn't eat another thing

The main course will be slices of pan-fried honey glazed Perigord duck from the same French supplier at the Christmas market where I always buy my Christmas magrets; indeed, it was his duck that I served for that fateful Christmas lunch five years ago when I invited a poor unfortunate to join me; as he is still here, I can only blame the duck. Did you know that a "magret" is a breast of a duck that is raised for the purpose of producing foie gras?

The sprouts are from, er, Brussels, but this year will be prepared à la Gordon Ramsay with pancetta and chestnuts; roasted parsnips and candied sweet potatoes represent a sort of Anglo-American touch; good old roast Belgian pots cooked the British way in duck fat; and an array of accompaniments - home made bread sauce, stuffing, cranberry and orange gravy. All washed down, needless to say, with some of Burgundy's finest ruby nectar.

A gradually shrinking Christmas pud will sit forlornly in the cupboard for another year, unless I can think of something more interesting to do with it, and this year's dessert will be a good old British sherry trifle, with jelly and perhaps a smidgeon of De Klok electric custard on the side. The cheeseboard comes out at the same time as dessert, so they can be eaten in any order you like, but in the festive season Stilton is a must, alongside some of my favourite French cheeses - some runny Brie, a lump of salty Roquefort and some pungent goat. A box of cheese crackers, some grapes and walnuts and a small bowl of Branston pickle will accompany the cheese. And possibly a glass of port, although more likely another bottle of Chateau Glug.

If I can still waddle to the kitchen we may finish off with a liqueur coffee before exploding.

And THAT, Monsieur, is how you do le Christmas dinner.



*Flounces off in high dudgeon*

WE'RE LEUVEN IT

The laciest building in Belgium - Leuven City Hall

I always enjoy Vi Hornblower's visits. Since she has been living the life of a sybarite in gay Paree she's been too busy guzzling champagne in the Hotel Crillon and Ladurée macaroons to visit her old stomping grounds in Brussels. So it was with extra elasticity in our foundation garments that we set off on the train to Louvain, or Leuven as we should call it, being perfectly bilingual like our charming new Prime Minister. What a lovely man! Such lovely hair. And I do so love a bow tie.

Our Elio

A spot of lunch was required before atttacking the Christmas market, so we plonked ourselves down at Clochard de Luxe, meaning "luxury tramp", which rather reminded me of the lodger McChe, last seen sipping a glass of cava at the Gare Centrale with a nonchalant air and a woolly hat that had seen better days. The restaurant is on the Place Mgr Ladeuze, which is (not entirely coincidentally) where the main Christmas market is situated.

Vi had game stew with potato croquettes and I had the spare ribs which are the speciality of the house, with chips. Both were delicious, washed down with half a carafe of house white, and two coffees. Most reasonable at 50 euros for two, and we rolled out into the Christmas market glowing with bonhomie and ready to track down the electric custard, which was the sole reason for trekking out to Leuven.

If custard were made by Ferrari, it would be Flemish advocaat. Thick, pale yellow, unctuous and 22% alc.vol., it is eaten by the Flems with a teaspoon at teatime, and by Vi Hornblower (and Lady Banjo, Vera Slapp and Yours Truly) with a ladle, at breakfast. There are various brands, but Vi and I swear by De Klok, which can only be purchased in Flanders. It is their weapon of mass destruction. Wallonia has FN Herstal, Flanders has De Klok. If it came to a war, my money's on the Flems. The young lad who delightedly sold us 8 small jars (me) and 1 humungous bucketful (Vi) told us it was now on sale in Harrods. I have excised Vi Hornblower from this photograph as she looked as if she was about to eat the young maaaan.

The Young Maaaan is obviously a member of the family firm as he features in the company website here

After loading up with the yellow nectar, we poked around the Christmas decorations, ridiculous Santa hats, scarves, beads, lanterns, Polish china and indoor water features, before repairing for a "vin chaud", or Banjo, for the hard of hearing. Hot mulled wine, jazzed up with oranges, ginger and cinnamon, and extra alcohol, it smells like cough medecine and has much the same effect.


Leuven was Christmassed up to the nines and was packed with shoppers and families getting in the festive spirit. It is a town with a great vibe, very young and studenty: a Brussels radio station in conjunction with the Red Cross was running a campaign to stop dystentery in Nepal called "We DO give a shit!" (in English). Not the most elegant charity campaign ever launched, it may shock some of the blue rinse brigade, but you get the point fairly fast. If you wish to know more, check it out here.


We had a quick spin around the old town square where the city hall, the laciest building in Belgium, was tastefully decorated with Christmas lights, and visited the creche, where the figurines were awaiting the arrival of the Baby Jesus, who will be placed in the crib on Christmas Eve. A couple of live sheep sat around looking bored in an adjoining pen.

Empty crib until the 24th

I waved Vi off on the Thalys to Paris, pretending not to notice the globs of custard already adorning her ample bosom, and headed homeward with my 8 jars, destined for De Klok fans and virgins alike, resolving to order a full dozen next year. Delivered to my house by the young maaaan.

HABEMUS IMPERIUM !

Ring out the bells! Hats in the air! Let off firecrackers!

Belgium has a government.

After 18 months, the six remaining parties in the coalition (we started off with nine) have managed to put aside enough of their differences to conclude an agreement. They were arguing down to the fine detail of how much tax value to give a company supplied Audi A4, for example, as opposed to a company Fiat Panda.

Apparently there is a reason for this. It ensures that the government won't fall apart at the first minor disagreement. Belgian political parties like to slam doors for effect, but that would lead to the collapse of the coalition and we'd have to start all over again.

However, now they have decided everything down to the number of spots on new PM Elio di Rupo's bow tie, it begs the question, what will be left for the parliamentarians to decide?

THE FINAL STRUGGLE

Where do old lefties go when they turn up their toes? No, not to the European Trade Union Confederation. I am referring to Highgate cemetery, which I visited on my last trip to London. My main purpose was to pay homage to Karl Marx, who is clearly the main attraction. But I was surprised by the number of luminaries, many of them with strong left-wing backgrounds, who share his last resting place.

Just across from the Father of Communism was Paul Foot, indefatigable investigative journalist for Private Eye. A plot facing Karl Marx must have involved either a large amount of money or some friends in high places. And when I say high ....

There were some exotic celebrities. Farzad Bazoft, the Observer journalist of Iranian origin who was executed by Saddam Hussein on trumped-up charges of spying, was commemorated with a headstone in black marble, although I'm not sure his remains actually lay underneath it. Another famous Iranian neighbour was Mansoor Hekmat, founder of both the Iranian and Iraqi Workers Communist parties, whose headstone below a bust of his handsome head bore a touching inscription from his widow: "To a great man, the essence of our lives, the polestar of my existence, the love of my life". Would that we all departed this world to such praise.

Redmond O'Neill sounded like a true Irish revolutionary, as hinted at by the quote from Che Guevara: "The true revolutionary is guided by great feelings of love". In reality his life was a little less exciting.

I couldn't find the graves of Malcolm McLaren, Beryl Bainbridge, Max Wall, Michael Faraday, or Alexander Litvinenko, some of which might have been in the West section, but did encounter the last resting place of Sir Ralph Richardson and - Lord preserve us - Jeremy Beadle, who is interred immediately adjacent to the esteemed literary agent Pat Kavanagh. In cemeteries, rather like on airplanes, you cannot always choose your neighbours.

I was touched by the small, plain, unassuming gravestone of Douglas Adams, author of my favourite book ever, "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". All it said was "Douglas Adams, writer, 1952-2001". I said a silent, belated farewell: "So long and thanks for all the fish".

Highgate, which opened in 1839, is a beautiful cemetery and heavily wooded. It nearly fell into disrepair and was saved by donations from the Friends of Highgate Cemetery in 1975. There is a £3 charge to visit Highgate East, and £7 for Highgate West, which can only be visited with a guide. You might think this is a bit steep to visit a cemetery, but the people on the gate told me that Highgate receives no public funding apart from a small English Heritage grant. I was appalled to learn that not one of the three boroughs it straddles (Camden, Haringey & Islington) contributes a penny to its maintenance. I dare say it's not cheap to be buried there, but only 35 or so plots are purchased every year, and the areas off the "celebrity walk" are becoming quite overgrown. There is a chapel in the West part, but a generally secular tone to the burial ground, which explains the appeal to left-wingers and revolutionaries.

THAR SHE BLOWS!

After much deliberating, pondering, mulling, throwing ideas up in the air and seeing if they fly, getting our ducks in a row, lining up our apples, and trying names on for size, the hitherto New Unnamed Brussels International Ladies Ensemble (NUBILE) have finally come up with a name.




It conveys our maturity, our femininity, our style of playing.




It is short, catchy, punchy, and provocative.





We play like a cross between the Hot Club de France and Jumping Jack Flash.


We are .....

HOT
FLASH !!!

Ba-da-boom-TISH !

Ay thang yow.



Take it away, girls.