How to eat frites the Belgian way

Many things about Belgium are impenetrably mysterious to the incoming foreigner: the commune system, which language to use, how to politely eat moules. But few are as cryptic as the menu of sauces that accompany Belgian frites. Ketchup, tartare, barbecue and mayonnaise seem fine. But what is Samourai? Andalouse? Mega? 

Unlike many great Belgian things that have successfully been exported (Trappist beer, chocolate, Tintin, speculoos biscuits, Audrey Hepburn), frites can only be experienced on home turf. And my, aren’t they so Belgian.

First, the friteries or fritkots in Dutch – chip shop kiosks found wedged on to street corners and in city squares – are totally egalitarian and the service is totally grumpy. Lightly greying ladies in need of a post-shopping snack, tired government officials, mothers feeding hungry kids, lads on the way out for beers all gather in the friterie queue to be greeted by nonchalant servers. It’s not for no reason they were considered an essential service and allowed to stay open during Covid. 

Second, few chips in the world can be as good as the Belgian frite. Almost universally made from fluffy Dutch Bintje potatoes cut about a centimetre thick and twice cooked in beef tallow, they are always startlingly hot with a craquelure surface unapologetically doused in salt. You can find vegetarian frites at a place in the Saint-Gilles district of Brussels but, I hate to say, they’re just not the same.

Now, the sauces. Most are mayonnaise based. Some are spicy. Many taste more or less identical. The majority of friteries run a menu that stretches to 20 or more. La William, a 50-plus-year-old Belgian company that specialises in sauces, is responsible for most. 

Andalouse, a tomato and pepper-based mayo sauce, is a good bet. House tartare too. American packs a little piquancy. Brazil tastes like a cold pineapple pizza. Bicky is a much-loved Belgian institution that comes in yellow (original), red (tomato) and brown (hot) varieties. As far as I can tell, it’s essentially a mustardy type of mayonnaise that is partly made from cabbage.

Mastering the sauce menu could be a life’s work as you manoeuvre your way around the frying havens of Brussels. Every local has an opinion on the best friterie and debates can be more heated than the fryers inside. If you’re really stuck you can consult the Fritmap.

My favourite (and local to where I live so I’m biased) is Frit’Flagey, a classic chip shack to one side of Place Flagey in the south of Brussels with an eternally long queue. It, and a similar set-up on the Barriere Saint-Gilles which is squeezed on to the side of a road, still serve les frites in the traditional chip shop paper. No messing around and enormous portions.

In the centre, Friterie Tabora near the Grand Place is a solid if touristy bet. You can spot it from the yellow bike in the window and the even wilder than usual variety of sauces. Big Saus or Maffia, anyone?

Frites can come fancy if you want, boxed and laden with more imaginative pairings such as basil and parmesan or kimchi, truffle and cheese at Frites Atelier, the brainchild of Michelin star-winning chef Sergio Herman, in Sainte Catherine.

Harman may have spent 18 months testing every frite in the book and now has five outlets, but it must be noted for the purists that the man is Dutch. Plus I’m never sure this is really how frites should be eaten – at bistro tables with bentwood chairs – but then not everyone is for the street corner, greasy cone experience.

The grandmere of the scene, the option that will earn you bragging rights, is Maison Antoine, a short walk from the European Commission building. Maison Antoine has been churning out the chips since 1948 and has sustained the world’s policymakers through hours of negotiations.

So hungry was the then-German chancellor Angela Merkel during one particularly hairy Brexit debate in 2016, she marched down to Maison Antoine and bought 45 cones of chips for her team. The owners reported that she also ordered 40 toppings, mostly mayonnaise and a few sauce Andalouse. Why she didn’t opt for the Samourai sauce, we shall never know…