Recipe below: Mussels with Leeks, Saffron, and Cream
A strange phenomenon occurs in Manhattan. It concerns restaurants. With so much turnover, often two or three changes a year, we often can’t remember what was there before. Was Reno Sweeney in the Sotto 13 building or next door in the kid’s school? Or was it where that hairdresser recently moved in? Is the new sushi joint in the former Filipino takeout counter or at that nice looking taco place I never went into? I sometimes think it’s just me going a bit senile, but so many people experience it, having things pulled out from under us. Ungrounded New York. But there are places I’ll never forget. Café de Bruxelles is one of them.
Beginning in the mid-1980s you could find me at Bruxelles several times a week. It was a true hangout, something hard to come by in this erratic city. It was on the corner of Greenwich and Horatio, right down the block from my apartment. With its yellow neon and odd grayish-greenish-blue paint job, it pulled me right in. It was in a one of those West Village triangular buildings immortalized by Edward Hopper in his 1942 painting Nighthawks (which was supposedly patterned after a triangle-shaped building just down on Greenwich, at the corner of Seventh Avenue).
At Bruxelles it was the barroom, not the restaurant itself, that drew me. There was a lumpy old Zinc bar, on which it was hard to balance a wine glass. The few bar tables that overlooked Greenwich Avenue had large windows with short lace curtains that had seen better days. It got busy on weekends, but I always found a bar seat on a Tuesday or Thursday. There was a Duvel beer poster on one wall (or was it Orval?), and on another a recent (at that time) New York magazine writeup stating that the frites at Bruxelles were the best in the city. That was, in my opinion, pretty much true. The general ambiance was a blend of dowdy European and New York chic. An odd mix that really worked for me.
The French chef and wife owners were gracious and aloof. She worked the house with a tight jaw and all-seeing eyes. Francine or Frances (why can’t I remember her name?) was thin and petite, her dark hair pulled back with a scrunchie, her knee-length straight skirt, white blouse, and ballet flats signaling some sort of French preppy look. She mostly ignored the bar crowd, I think not really understanding the watering hole mentality. Her chef husband was sweaty and anxious when he occasionally emerged from the basement kitchen. Francine gave out little boxes of Leonidas Belgian chocolates to her regulars every New Year. I felt proud that I always got one.
Bruxelles wasn’t as freewheeling as some looser American places. The bartenders were instructed not to do too much chatting, and, more important, not to give away too many drinks, a rule they followed only when Francine (or Frances) was around. It wasn’t at all a pickup place. The clientele was a mix of the old West Village gray hair, Mexican skirt, and Birkenstock crowd, slightly worn-out middle-aged regulars who still had a bit of cool in them (like me), and younger people who drank strong cocktails. I sat there next to Lou Reed a few times.
Dinner at the bar for me was often two parchment paper cones of their exceptional frites (which came with homemade mayonnaise), three or four glasses of Côtes du Rhône red, and half dozen Marlboro Lights, which I bummed from friends or guys hanging at the bar (in later years, of course, we couldn’t smoke anywhere, and by that time, luckily, I had lost interest anyway). I know this “dinner” sounds sort of disgusting, but I can assure you that at the time it was perfection. When I wanted a real meal, I’d get a big bowl of mussels with cream and leeks and maybe a Delirium Tremens, one of the powerful Belgian beers they stocked. The serious food, such as waterzooi, a murky braise that, I was surprised to learn, was made with chicken, or the carbonade flamande, a beef stew cooked in beer, was mushy and dull. I usually stuck to the frites.
And they had mice. The mice would come out at night. One night I arrived at the bar, straight off a long plane ride, tired and seriously hungry, and after a few wines and a cone of frites I started experiencing a weird jet lag sensation, a sort of out of body feeling of falling backward in slow motion, even though I was sitting still. Not altogether bad, actually. But I sensed some kind real motion at my feet. I looked down and saw mice scurrying around my bar stool. I wasn’t sure if they were real or just my jet-lagged mind playing tricks. So many tiny baby mice. They were real. I asked Robert, the bartender, about them and he said, smirking, that the owners didn’t think they had any mice, so he guessed they didn’t have mice. Since they didn’t exist, I just went on with my bowl of mussels, staring out at the hard rain and the street lights. Robert said he liked my sweater. “Is it cashmere?” It wasn’t, but I felt good in my neighborhood, in my mousy place, on a chilly night, in my faux cashmere sweater.
Bruxelles closed in 2010. At first the owners said it was temporary, damage from a kitchen fire. That might have been the case, but we soon learned they’d sold the lease to a guy who planned to open a pricey, hip French place. That was very hard to bear. In a few months, there it was, the new place, zinc bar gone, packed with banker types, bone marrow on the menu. That didn’t last long. Then I think an eclectic American something or other opened up, also with bone marrow. I never ate there. And now Rossopomodoro, a more than decent, slick-vibed Italian trattoria run by people associated with Eataly. I can take it or leave it. I want Café de Bruxelles back.
Red Wine with Mussels, by Carolyn Ritchie Bedford.
Mussels with Leeks, Saffron, and Cream
(Makes 2 large servings)
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 medium leeks, cleaned and cut into thin rounds, using some of the tender green part
About 8 large sprigs of thyme, with the blossoms, if available, the leaves chopped
About 2 or so pounds black mussels, on the small side, well washed
¼ cup dry vermouth
A big pinch of saffron threads, dried and ground, and then dissolved in ½ cup of warm chicken broth
½ cup heavy cream
Black pepper
2 tablespoons butter
Salt, if needed
A handful of flat leaf parsley leaves, chopped
Get out a really big pot, and set it over medium-high heat. Add about 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Add the leeks and the thyme (saving the blossoms, if you have any, for garnish), and sauté until everything is fragrant and the leeks are softened, about 4 minutes. Add the mussels, and stir them around in the leeks for a minute. Add the vermouth, and let it boil out for about another minute. Now add the saffron-scented chicken broth. When the liquid starts bubbling, stir the mussels so they’re well moistened, and then cover them for about about half a minute, just to build up some heat. Uncover, adding the cream, and stir the mussels a few more times. They should start to open after about 5 minutes (a few might take longer, but don’t wait too long for them or the others will get overcooked).
Add the butter, the parsley, and the thyme blossoms, if you’ve got them. Toss. Taste for salt—you may or may not need any depending on the saltiness of the mussels. Serve right away. And have plenty of good bread to soak up the juices.
After the mussels, a big salad of bitter greens and a good soft goat cheese will be perfect—and very Bruxelles.
In my opinion, tomatoes are nature’s greatest summer gift. A fine thing to do with them is to make an Italian-style rice salad, which is like a pasta salad but more authentically Italian. To cut down on excess wateriness in my rice salad, I slice the tomatoes into a filetto di pomodoro. That means I cut away all the seeds and watery gel from the inside of the tomatoes and then chop the remaining fillets. The deep red tomato bits look like a pile of rubies sitting on my counter (see the photo above). Don’t throw away those slippery seeds. You can take all that and throw it into a blender. Then you can easily strain it, making a thick tomato juice that’s great in a Bloody Mary, or for loosening up pastas or soups.
So I made this beet and goat cheese torta. It’s a lot more beautiful and delicious than any painting I can turn out at the moment. I offer it to you as a high summer thought. You’ll notice that it has touches of sweetness, in the beets, of course, but also in the sweet pasta frolla, and the honey-vinegar drizzle I add right before baking. But to balance that out, I’ve added olives and a strong herb, making it suitable for an antipasto pass-around. Nice with a glass of rosé.
Erica De Mane 