They Eat it in the Congo

Last week: I ate Congolese food for the first time

As a child, I was a rather fussy eater to say the least. At primary school, I made an art form of hiding uneaten vegetables so that I was allowed a slice of chocolate cake for afters and, on one occasion, my cousin's Grandma served me sugarless jam sandwiches for lunch because there was nothing else in her pantry that I could stomach. There were some days when my diet consisted of 2 oz of Cola Cubes and whatever my parents managed to force feed me in the evenings.

I still have my moments, but on the whole, I am far more compliant these days, although my mother-in-law would probably beg to differ. Important as it is to me to broaden my culinary horizons, there are some things that I really don't think were ever meant for human consumption. I'm thinking specifically of one occasion when I was tucking into lunch in a French school canteen when my exchange partner proudly exclaimed "eet eez ze Sheep's brain". Or when killing time before a train in fabulous Brussels art nouveau bar A la Mort Subite, I inadvisably ordered popular Flemish bar snack 'kip kap'. One of the few Flemish words I've managed to retain is 'kip' (chicken), so misguidely, I expected a plate of chicken nuggets with some funky kind of dip, but to my horror, received a dish full of cubed 'tête pressée' (pressed pig's head) with a rather unappetising layer of jelly as the icing on the cake.

Last Thursday, I was invited along to an office night out to bid au revoir to my lovely colleague Joni who is about to embark on an exciting opportunity working for the EU Delegation in the Gambia. It was a tall order locating a Gambian restaurant in Brussels, so we settled on a Congolese joint in Matongé - the ethnic quarter of Ixelles. Apparently you don't get more authentic than Kuumba, and at weekends, the place is packed to the rafters with Africans hankering for a taste of home and Brussels locals out to try something other than moules frites. On a week night, Kuumba was far from rowdy, but we were enough in our party for a convivial atmosphere.

We had opted in advance for the €25 per head buffet, a little steep if you ask me, but nobody did. On the plus side, I would've had no idea whatsoever what to order and this way, we all got to try a little of everything. There was bound to be something really tasty that I liked....wasn't there?

Waiting for our feast to arrive, my eyes scanned the drinks menu. It was a sad state of affairs; even after overcoming my initial disappoint at the glaring absence of 'Um Bongo', I was dismayed to see that there wasn't anything of Congolese origin - some cheeky homebrew to liven up proceedings, for example. But no. It was Jupiler all round. When in Belgium...

Cassava is the world's third most popular carbohydrate though it's difficult to see why. Resembling lumps of marzipan, I can safely say that it's the only thing I've ever eaten that tastes of nothing (although there is a slight aftertaste of wet dog). I was not alone in my disgust for this; one colleague was so repulsed that she was compelled to move the plate to the next table to avoid the cassava appearing in her field of vision. Maybe there are different ways to serve it and this was just cassava in its blandest form. I might be a big fan if it was topped with baked beans and cheddar and served with a smile at my local Cassavaulike.

I was delighted when a bowl of plantain was delivered to my end of the table along with a relatively tasty spinach dish. I'm pretty sure there was some kind of meat lurking among the leaves, but was informed to keep stumm as the vegetarians were arm wrestling over it on the other side of the table. Meanwhile a severed fish head was looking up at me from my plate. I picked at it for a while, nibbled on a bit of crispy skin and then realised that the only way I was going to sate my appetite was by scoffing the whole thing - eyes and all. I braced myself with a hefty swig of beer and, just as I was about to take the plunge, the waitress served up a piping hot dish of Chicken Mwambe. Saved by the belle.

The Mwambe contained far more bones than I would've cared for, as did the fish stew. But compared with what came next, this was a veritable feast. The pièce de résistance was a plate full of the wonderful delicacy that is goat meat. The first time I ate goat meat, it was in a Jamaican curry, a necessary and clever ruse clearly employed to disguise everything about it. But at Kuumba, it was presented to us in its natural state - tough, overly salty and tasting exactly like how a goat smells. Five kinds of vile.

Authentic indeed. Maybe even a little too authentic for my pampered Western palate.

Would I try this again?: I would resort to cannibalism first.