MikePadgett.com

Death of the salesman

Among others of the press, venerable francophone newspaper Le Soir reported last week on the murder of Adrien-Denis Debouvrie, a well-known local businessman.

Debouvrie’s body was found “riddled with bullets” in an apartment on Brussels’ Rue des Bouchers, Le Soir exclaimed in rather lurid terms. Other sources claim that the 74 year-old restaurateur and sculptor of Jeanneke Pis had been stabbed to death.

Cleaning up

Some wondered aloud in comments on Le Soir’s website whether the murder might precipitate action from the city to clean up the Bouchers area, which has been consistently sold to tourists by Debouvrie and others as a “gastronomic quarter”, despite being typically described by locals as a den of iniquity.

Indeed some restaurant businesses in Rue des Bouchers/Beenhouwersstraat, it has often been alleged, launder the proceeds of operations that are decidedly less gastronomic.

An appetite for average (or worse)

Until relatively recently the area had been a jewel in the crown of the Îlot Sacré, with diners strolling the narrow streets, passing by musicians and entertainers on their way to one of a handful of renowned establishments a very few of which, like Aux Armes de Bruxelles, still survive.

Yet tourists today can expect hawking and hassle from an army of pushy maîtres d’ and a lottery of addresses whose tables are laid on a scale of mediocre to awful. Come September, when Belgium’s moules season begins in earnest, the striking similarity between these baleful brasseries is never more stark.

During my first Brussels sojourn in 2001, having arrived on a £2.89 flight during the early days of budget air travel, l found the crackling, strangely tense atmosphere rather unpalatable. Eventually I ducked into one place and ate a plate of salty snails. And of course, I learned from the experience, then I learned that everyone else already knows everything. From that angle, eating around there could be a rite of passage, a grim initiation ceremony from which things could only get better.

Yet still they flock in their thousands to the same old places and the attitudes of the greasy men out front endure. For every increasingly cynical Bruxellois/Brusseleir who prefers to dine in the communes (and we are joining such ranks), there’s a wide-eyed, camera toting innocent who buys the pitch.

Later, a few of them will muse that the bolognese is better at home. Some will recall how the salad wilted. And many of them will bull it up for the folks at home, then denounce it on Tripadvisor.

Of course, all of that comes later. Meanwhile, the expression on their faces tonight says the snails are a bit salty.