NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 29 May 2000 21:18:05 EDT Xref: usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu alt.restaurants:8779 ont.general:107982 tor.general:99813 soc.culture.canada:318683 rec.food.restaurants:50326 HORROR AT THE CAFE BRUSSEL, OR CRYPTO CUSACK CAN'T CUT IT It's not every day that you can go to a restaurant and be seated by a waiter who bears an uncanny resemblance to John Cusack. Yet, that was the promising beginning to our dining experience last Saturday night as the lovely Diane and I arrived at the Cafe Brussel to celebrate our wedding anniversary by treating ourselves to what a friend had assured us would be a fine meal at a first-rate restaurant. Now, Broadview Avenue just north of the Danforth, smack-dab across from the TTC station, is not where one would naturally expect to find a classy eatery. Once you enter the Brussel, however, awareness of the decidedly downscale Toronto neighbourhood outside quickly vanishes. Small and slightly cramped, the Brussel is nevertheless nicely appointed, with 20 tables or so set between the bar running the length of one wall and a room-length mirror set into its opposite. Understated prints in pastel colours adorn the walls. The wait-persons wear black vests over white shirts and the one who showed us to our table bore, as I mentioned, a striking resemblance to the star of Grosse Pointe Blank. With no house wine on the list and the available vintages rather pricey, Diane and I opted for a glass each of a recommended red. The wine came promptly enough, but tiny warning bells began to peal in our heads when we saw the niggardly amount of nectar in each glass. At $8.50 a pop, it is perhaps not too much to expect to get a glass at least half full (or half-empty?), but alas, it was not to be. Sipping slowly, then, was to be the order of the evening. After wading through the small stack of reading materials a different waiter placed before us (main menus, specials menus, hors d'oeuvre menu, wine list and liquor selection), we chose artichoke hearts and escargots as appetizers and we both ordered what looked to be the most interesting Special of the Day -- bouillabaisse featuring mussels, shrimp, fish and lobster tails. Somewhat dear, perhaps, at about $35 each, but it was our anniversary, after all -- no time to pinch pennies. Then we sat back to enjoy the ambience of the place and sip our wine. Slowly. Our appetizers arrived in about 15 minutes and they were adequate. We munched happily and unsuspectingly as the restaurant filled up with hopeful diners. We could just taste the bouillabaisse that was, we reckoned, even then being whipped up in the kitchen by the staff of expert Belgian chefs. An hour or so later, with the artichokes and escargots now just dim memories and our wine glasses sadly empty, we began to cast anxious glances at the kitchen doors. Diners who had arrived long after we had were, we noticed, working their way through their main courses, while we hadn't seen hide not hair of our waiter since we placed out order. Surely it couldn't be long now. Fifteen minutes later, I finally managed to snag the attention of our waiter and allowed that we were becoming beaucoup hungry, and just un peu impatient. "Don't worry," he assured me with a practised, indulgent smile. "A couple of minutes. Just a couple of minutes." The "couple of minutes" slowly stretched to 20, and a number of unpleasant realities began to force their way into our consciousness: Not once during what was becoming an interminable wait did anyone ask if we were in need of anything. No one even offered water. At the Brussel, apparently, one drinks wine at $8.50 a quarter-glass, or one drinks nothing at all. The couple at the next table broke their silence to tell us that we seemed to have been waiting a very long time for our food. We know, we told them. We know. One hour and forty minutes after ordering our meals, the Lovely Diane's patience snapped like a dry twig. "I've had it," she said grimly. "Let's go." Those must have been the magic words, however, because before we could move, a serving wench arrived with our main courses. I won't belabour the reader with descriptions of disappointing portions of overcooked seafood; suffice it to say that the reward did not come close to justifying the wait. Diane decided to complain to the serving wench when next she appeared. "Oh well, you know," the wench replied, "it all has to be prepared, and we had some trouble in the kitchen, so that's why it took a while." She didn't specify just what kind of "trouble" it was that kept the kitchen from producing our meals while we still wanted them, and at that point, we didn't care. Well, said Diane, it would have been nice if someone had told us that it was going to take so long -- or had come over to ask if we wanted anything. "Oh, I'm sorry," the wench replied before slipping away. Actually, she didn't look sorry at all. Minutes later, we were mercifully out of there and back in the declassé but friendlier environs of Broadview Avenue. The bill came to $126. We left a $4 tip. Why am I telling you all this? Call it a public service announcement. If ever you should find yourself in the Broadview-Danforth neighbourhood and get a sudden urge for fine Belgian-French cuisine expertly prepared and professionally served while you're still hungry, may I suggest you give the Cafe Brussel a wide berth. Unless, of course, you really, really like John Cusack.
Toronto, Canada