How I learned to love the little grey shrimp of Belgium

In Texas, we cut our teeth on big Gulf shrimp—as in Gulf of Mexico, if you please— that cook up pearly and slick, often with a diagnostic trace of iodine that I've learned to low-key like over the years. They taste like home.

Fried shrimp, stuffed shrimp, shrimp poboys, Cajun-boiled peel-and-eats, Pontchartrain-style toppings for fish, Campechana-style cocktails...all are vital to Houston cuisine. There are few things I'd rather eat, anywhere, than the mesquite-grilled shrimp in salsa verde at Goode Company Seafood, or the world-class shrimp cocktail at Little's Oyster Bar.

You could say we're spoiled. So while prepping for my recent trip to Brussels, I raised an eyebrow at several Belgian delicacies made with the tiny grey shrimp, crevettes grises, fished from cold, shallow North Sea waters.

I mean, these babies are seriously small, about the size of a fingernail. How on earth could they make much of an impression? Not to mention that shelling them after they were boiled had to be the essence of close work. I had to try them out.

First stop: Restaurant L'Ogenblik, a handsome 56-year-old gastropub in the Galeries Royales, where the menu blends local ingredients and French techniques on a menu peppered with Belgian classics. Grey shrimp croquettes, for instance: a dish you see on half the menus in the city.

The photos I had scoped out before my trip made the croquettes look...well...ponderously fried. I was skeptical. Croquettes in America are best avoided, I have learned to my sorrow.

But when I eased a fork into L'Ogenblik's well-browned, crumb-crusted Belgian croquette, a molten ooze of cheesy, satin-smooth, shrimpy bliss poured forth.

Whoa, I thought. I get it!

The croquette tasted vaguely illegal, like I shouldn't be enjoying it quite so much. The grey shrimp imparted a subtle marine taste to the dish. Gulf shrimp swagger. Crevettes grises creep in on little crustacean feet.

I later learned that some recipes call for the tiny shells to be boiled with the milk that goes into the roux and egg yolk and cheese that make the dough. The resulting thick béchamel is chilled, cut to shape, washed in egg white and rolled in breadcrumbs for frying.'

I am now a believer. I have met a croquette I admired, and I appreciated the subtle oceanic pull exerted by the grey shrimp. The traditional garnishes, peppery flash-fried parsley sprigs and a lemon wedge, contribute just the right contrast. Add a half-bottle of good white wine, like the Chablis Premier Cru Fourchame on L'Ogenblik's civilized list, and you've got something wonderfully indulgent that matches the old-fashioned feel of the snug wood-paneled dining room.

I slipped in for supper by myself on my first full day in town, unbooked, and was greeted with good humor by a couple of staffers who coaxed me along as my French vocabulary haltingly returned. I'd return in a heartbeat. The couple next to me said they dine here without fail on every trip from Dusseldorf.

My second grey shrimp adventure happened at the old-school Belgian bistro Au Vieux Saint Martin, where I shared a beautifully made, runny-in-the-middle shrimp omelette with a friend as a first course. "Our eggs are laid by hens raised free range in Belgium," promised the menu.

Here the curls of tiny shrimp were front and center. You don't sink your teeth into them, the way you'd attack a big ol' Gulf shrimp; you let them dance on your tongue. They contributed a lovely marine note, their texture tender with a bit of bounce. A little dish of coarse sea salt came with a tiny spoon to season the eggs to taste. Perfect with a glass of white wine.

Next visit, I plan to lunch on a whole omelette des crevettes grises to myself. If I am not distracted by the restaurant's velvety, chilled veal brains with a pickly remoulade sauce (seriously great, I swear); or their just-so frites; or their textbook Dame Blanche, the vanilla ice cream served with a cloud of whipped cream and dark chocolate tablets that melt away when you pour on deep, dark hot chocolate sauce from a little pitcher.

And guess what? A vegetarian at our table ordered the plain parmesan croquettes here, and they were spectacular. I'm sold on the genre.

I departed fretting that restaurant omelettes in Houston can be so dreary, always excepting the spinach-and-feta version at Kriti Kitchen. Often they are tough and overcooked, too stuffed with ingredients. At Au Vieux Martin, they actually ask you how you want your omelette cooked, and their least-cooked version (not medium or well-done) is the platonic one.

I'm still thinking about it. And dreaming about the gleaming lacquered surfaces and vivid modern graphic art in this Art Deco room, where the welcome is kind even to Texans who don't know from crevettes grises.