When the first encounter with a restaurant's wares consists of a crumpled paper bag filled with cooling chips, the prognosis for a positive judgment is not good. But when the circumstances are extreme hunger (after a strenuous shift on the Irish Times newsdesk) and the chips turn out to be mighty fine, an inner glow ensues.
The chips were from Belgo, part of a global chain now in Temple Bar, and their appearance was something like a miracle - particularly when you consider their 12-year-old donor usually hoovers up every chip within a 50-mile radius. But there were so many chips - or frites, as the Belgians call them - supplied with dinner that she was full up to dolly's wax - yet couldn't bear to leave the delicious leftovers behind. There is a God.
The rest of the family had been taking advantage of the excellent value £5 lunch at Belgo, which is pretty quiet on a Saturday afternoon. Perhaps this is partly because a lot of people have no idea where it is (Sycamore Street). Peering down from Dame Street the view is of illegally parked cars and a couple of big rubbish dumpsters outside the side door of the Olympia Theatre.
Belgo itself, however, is an oasis of cool. A plate-glass front gives a view of a blond-and-brown wooden interior, minimalist but not so much so that you could scream for a pair of fluffy dice. Belgo - which is spreading across the globe like the Belgian empire of the last century, with its latest branches set to open in Tokyo and Amsterdam - does have a fondness for the low-key look. Their first London branch, on Chalk Farm road, was so minimalist that it was totally invisible to me on a dark winter's night three or four years ago, as I plodded up and down with ever-increasing hunger and failed to find it. Eventually, in desperation I found a phone booth (those were the days!) and called the restaurant.
The conversation went something like, "And where are you exactly?" "I'm in the phone booth just by the wall bordering the railway line, opposite the Spar." "Well, if you come out of the phone booth and cross the road, we'll be talking face-to-face." All Belgo had to distinguish itself from the lock-up garages and well-shuttered shops was a dim and elegantly lit vertical sign, far too difficult to see for somebody in the throws of such a frantic search. Belgo in Temple Bar is worth finding. When I returned for dinner, in the spirit of inquiry so cherished by readers of this organ, the place was busy without feeling jammed, and the staff was friendly and solicitous.
When in Belgium, do as the Belgians do (although the actual Belgian pedigree of the chain is not established - I hear there is Canadian and English blood in the line). When in Belgo, it would be mad not to sample one of the zillions of exotic beers on offer. I started with an old friend, bitter cherry beer, or Kriek, which I noticed after a couple was 6.5 per cent proof, one of the strongest on the list. Bonzer! as they'd say in Belgium if they knew the word. Why, if they had offered beers like this in Australia I would never have had to leave. Not being a Foster's drinker, though, sealed my fate.
Dragging my lips reluctantly from the beer glass, I started with crab cakes (deep fried and served with pickled peppers and creme fraiche, £4.95), which were hot and tasty. My gran amor Paco had his usual Caesar salad, on which he is hoping to become a world authority and get invited on RTE's morning programme during the summer. This salad came with chicken, a cheeky touch, thought Paco, but he waved it through on the grounds of the chicken being flavoursome. Overall, though, he felt the salad did not particularly taste like a Caesar salad should. Mustering all my culinary know-how, I volunteered that this may well be down to the dressing. Paco chose mussel salsa (£8.95) for his main course, as it evoked his sunny homeland. The dish looked promising when it arrived, resembling a pizza on a flat metal plate with lots of cheese and chopped red and green peppers, but rather minute mussels. However, "is cold", declared Paco in a matching tone. "And why are the mussels so small?" (This later transpired to be because the dish was a special mini-mussel platter, with indentations in it about the size of the mussels served).
Our waiter (who I at first took to be Belgian but turned out to be Scottish!) hastily removed the offending dish and brought it back rapidly, much warmer. Paco was mollified, but still unenthusiastic. I had the Wild Mushroom Ragout (£8.95) which featured a puff pastry circle, lots of giant mushrooms perfectly cooked, and plenty of cheese and a sauce apparently featuring Orval beer. By this time I was migrating from the Kriek to a less strong (3.5 per cent) but equally delicious apple beer, so perhaps the taste buds were under excessive attack. I found the dish quite acceptable but the combination of the beer and copious amounts of those aforementioned frites, which the waiter pressed upon us, might have been taking the fine edge off my appetite.
By now, the place had filled up nicely with a good mix of couples, trendy groups, tourists, and a couple of families, one with children around 10 years of age and another with a baby in a carry-seat who slept through all the jollity, albeit with a troubled expression. Paco approved of the crowd. "Is good to see families out in solid," he opined, his tenuous hold on English wavering under the Belgian beer attack. I suppose it reminded him of his native San de Cove. We were both fairly satisfied at this stage but soldiered on in the interests of research, choosing a blueberry and almond tart (£3.95) and pistachio ice-cream (£3.75) respectively. The tart was more like a cake in my book, and just a tiny bit drier than the taste buds wanted, but not unpleasant. The pistachio ice cream was a winner. Coffee was out of the question, but after a lengthy discussion on how that was it, not a drop or morsel, no podemos mas, as Paco might say, he went ahead and ordered a lemon schnapps. Hombres! This was a little medicinal in taste, but there are others to choose from, and the menu playfully recommends that a raft of schnapps (you can see the wooden receptacles hanging up on the wall near the staircase) containing 64 shots is a grand thing for two people to share.
Speaking of the menu, it has a competition: a page of photos of famous Belgians and, if you can identify them, you get free drinks. However, as none of those pictured were either Tintin or Georges Simenon, Paco and I missed out. The bill came to £64.46 precisely, including a 12.5 per cent tip. This is not a practice I favour but I didn't particularly mind as the service had been excellent (and, reportedly, it was the same when Paco and the ninos were there for lunch, so I presume it is a general rule). One wouldn't go to Belgo seeking a deep and meaningful food experience, but if one likes beer and chips it is terrific. And that, I believe, covers a lot of people.
Belgo, 17 Sycamore Street, Dublin 2, tel: 01-6727555. Open Monday-Thursday 12.30 p.m.3 p.m. and 5.30 p.m.11 p.m., Friday 7 p.m.midnight, Saturday 12.30-midnight, Sunday 12.30 p.m.10.30 p.m.