The Golden Pig

Whilst sifting through memories of trips to Brussels, I came across a particularly fond one. At the previously mentioned two week training trip, one of the students was a dapper little Parisian guy, in his late forties. We had chatted a little although he didn’t tend to mix with us yobs. I asked if he would like to join us for dinner one night. He agreed and at the appointed hour we set off for (I think) Rick’s American Café on Avenue Louise. There were probably fifteen of us, I was near the back of the group as we approached the restaurant. Going through the door I felt a tug on my sleeve; Pierre was not happy about our choice. He had a young technical chap with him from the Paris office and he suggested that I should pick one of my mates and the four of us would go somewhere he thought would be better.

So we got into his 205 and headed across town. (Waiting at a traffic light, a Belgian in lycra crossed the road pushing a state of the art racing bike with only a rear wheel; Pierre chuckled “ah les Belges”). After twenty or so minutes we parked up in what appeared to be a residential part of town, walked across a square and up a few steps into an unprepossessing establishment called the Cochon D’or. It had only four or five tables. Immediately Pierre got into quite a serious chat with the Maitre D’. We stood around helplessly. After a few minutes Pierre asked us to wait and he and the main man disappeared into the kitchen. Another ten minutes later Pierre emerged saying that everything was ok. We sat down, I was never offered a menu. It was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.