21 April 2007
Spring is here, and with it bluebells, barbecues and the butter mountains of brilliant flesh that no man should ever see. It is a time to absorb every last golden drop of sun, ideally with beer in hand.
But what to do at lunch time? Dining outside is less easy in Norwich than, say, Nice – unless of course you’re happy to snatch a pasty on the steps of Next, and observe the local teenagers be, as they say, alternative (which, as far as I can discern, amounts to little more than girls spitting and boys sharing make-up).
Two minutes’ walk from the increasingly serious gotholick posturing is The Belgian Monk. Here we find a blessedly discreet terrace out back, where, in the absence of shade, one can settle down to an indecent variety of Belgian beers and soak up the UV till exquisitely pink. The beer starts at around Stella strength and increases in liability from there. They’ll also serve it with a straw, for those on a budget.
For those unfamiliar with Belgium’s contribution to cuisine, it broadly comes down to chocolate and moules frites – The Belgian Monk focuses more on the latter, with some thirteen different ways of serving them (twenty-six if you count the snack-sized servings). There may well be a chocolate menu, but I had red mist for meatballs and was disinclined to check.
However, I was under orders to get mussels for Mrs Wifey (she having baggsied the sitting down and holding the table out in the sun job), and so I ordered her moules with salmon and leek.
One seldom has the opportunity to use both ‘medieval’ and ‘sconce’ in the same sentence, but with the chips arriving in such a vessel, it was, linguistically speaking, a dream come true.
Yet it was also grossly disheartening, as the best fries in the world are [arguably] Belgian by birth – or at least cooking technique. Serving a chubby chip with your moules is like buying a box of Leonidas and finding a Double Decker inside. However, Mrs Wifey was happy, and that was the most important thing.
I was also happy: the meatballs were good.
As a monk-free provincial Belgo, it fills a market niche, but the wise money comes during the week for the dubbel deal menu.
Eat here: but don’t make a habit of it. A habit! Ha! I’m here all week!
Keywords: lager lager lager
26 April 2007
02 April 2007
Steers, Lobster Lane
31 March 2007
Some people can pogo, others can understand vectors. Once, I even read about a bloke who could write different academic papers with each hand while holding an unrelated conversation (less useful than it sounds, apparently). Mrs Wifey – she can sleep.
Sometimes – when she’s really been champing at the bit – I leave her to it. Everyone needs their me time, and besides, it’s good to have hobbies. By midday though, I see that our breakfast-meter has ticked over from fashionably late to positively indecent, with vulgar sloth on the none too distant horizon.
The weekend shopping trip therefore begins somewhat behind schedule, and the list is necessarily stripped down to the bare bones. Yet despite this reduced agenda, our spirit cracks after just ten minutes in Gap and we are in urgent need of soul food.
However, in the absence of rice and peas and Red Rip (Norwich not being a hotbed of West Indian cuisine), we’re ready to compromise for anything within 200 yards.
Now, I’m a man of simple double standards. For example, if I can’t see inside a pub, I’ll not venture in. Pressganging may be less common these days, but business is brisk in wicker man pubs, and we are in Norfolk, after all.
When it comes to eating, however, I ain’t so proud. The door next to Thorns hardware store is open, and all that’s visible is the stairwell and the promise of burger.
Two flights later, we enter a well-windowed expanse that looks onto Pottergate. It’s much larger and lighter than Captain America’s, just around the corner, it has better beer (ie not just watery US lager) and St Gregory’s church makes good scenery.
It also has the best picture of a North Sea drilling platform that I’ve ever seen in a gent’s toilet, *anywhere*. I asked for the skinny: ‘It was like that when we got here.’
The burgers weren’t *bad*, but my heart and head always dip when I can’t have my beef rare. The chilli was less sweet and meaty than at Captain America’s (a good thing) but also had too much tomato paste (a bad thing). As for the chips – they were nice. But they weren’t fries.
Norwich has an abundance of American-style chow houses, and Zaks, for one, does a better burger spread. Maybe we should sacrifice this one and redevelop the oil rig niche.
Eat here: with 2 for 1 offer flyer
Keywords: high up rig chic
Some people can pogo, others can understand vectors. Once, I even read about a bloke who could write different academic papers with each hand while holding an unrelated conversation (less useful than it sounds, apparently). Mrs Wifey – she can sleep.
Sometimes – when she’s really been champing at the bit – I leave her to it. Everyone needs their me time, and besides, it’s good to have hobbies. By midday though, I see that our breakfast-meter has ticked over from fashionably late to positively indecent, with vulgar sloth on the none too distant horizon.
The weekend shopping trip therefore begins somewhat behind schedule, and the list is necessarily stripped down to the bare bones. Yet despite this reduced agenda, our spirit cracks after just ten minutes in Gap and we are in urgent need of soul food.
However, in the absence of rice and peas and Red Rip (Norwich not being a hotbed of West Indian cuisine), we’re ready to compromise for anything within 200 yards.
Now, I’m a man of simple double standards. For example, if I can’t see inside a pub, I’ll not venture in. Pressganging may be less common these days, but business is brisk in wicker man pubs, and we are in Norfolk, after all.
When it comes to eating, however, I ain’t so proud. The door next to Thorns hardware store is open, and all that’s visible is the stairwell and the promise of burger.
Two flights later, we enter a well-windowed expanse that looks onto Pottergate. It’s much larger and lighter than Captain America’s, just around the corner, it has better beer (ie not just watery US lager) and St Gregory’s church makes good scenery.
It also has the best picture of a North Sea drilling platform that I’ve ever seen in a gent’s toilet, *anywhere*. I asked for the skinny: ‘It was like that when we got here.’
The burgers weren’t *bad*, but my heart and head always dip when I can’t have my beef rare. The chilli was less sweet and meaty than at Captain America’s (a good thing) but also had too much tomato paste (a bad thing). As for the chips – they were nice. But they weren’t fries.
Norwich has an abundance of American-style chow houses, and Zaks, for one, does a better burger spread. Maybe we should sacrifice this one and redevelop the oil rig niche.
Eat here: with 2 for 1 offer flyer
Keywords: high up rig chic
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