- Written by: Mona Biedrzycka
Strong and planted
Willem Hiele has the build of a man the house might have been shaped around. Broad-shouldered, square-jawed, rough with the wind. There’s something architectural in the way he stands: planted, weight evenly distributed, like one of the brick corners holding the restaurant together. His hair - long, sea-dark, never quite still - catches the air like the fields.
The house from 1971, designed by Belgian artist and architect Jacques Moeschal, like the chef, offers no softness at first. It’s all mass and edge: long red bricks laid in sharp geometry. But neither feels cold. Just elemental. Brutal in form, not in spirit.
Inside, the tone shifts. The geometry holds, but the light takes over. The afternoon sun pours through glass walls, catching white linen and pale wood in a soft, diffused glow. The lounge with Bastiano sofas by Tobia Scarpa, a few shelves of books and art, a DJ set with an impressive collection of vinyls and a fireplace flickering in colder seasons.
The palette is muted: slate, wood, raw metal. But it’s not austere. It breathes - the kind of space where silence is designed. One long window overlooks the polders - flat and vast, like an unwritten page. The air moves through everything.
When the first dish hits the table, the wind has already shifted twice. Out here, the air moves, salt-heavy, always just past comfortable. Inside the former mansion, the knives are already warm, the fire sulks in the hearth, and the food doesn’t wait for you to settle. It arrives when it’s ready. The weather decides.
Before the Fire
July at the North Sea is moody. That evening, dinner opening was prepared in the lounge until seconds before service, when Willem walked out and made the call: “The weather is nice. We serve outdoors.”
Guests move to the back terrace. White tables faced the wide open polders stretching out like a sea, rinsed by sky. The champagne is poured. The mood has settled. If you're lucky to be at the restaurant on the right day, the mackerel comes first served still warm, straight from the smoker. No sauces. No flourish. Just heat and fish, and somehow it moves you. Turns out you never knew mackerel could be this good.
But it is not that day this time. First dishes arrive on a platter: oyster in aquachile of local oxalis and serrano pepper; razor clam tartare with tomato and Royal Belgian Caviar; grilled squid with paprika and gremolata, and bean rolls in purple shiso leaves. Each bite is what the coast had ready today. Small things. Enough.
Just down the coast, the same sea has something harder to catch. And Willem offered me the chance to witness it.
Shrimp, with Hooves and Salt
Shrimping begins in the afternoon only once the tide falls low enough to drag a net. Around four, the sand firms. The water thins to a sheet. And Stefan Hancke rides in with Dina - a heavy Brabant mare, chest deep in the surf, huge basket on each side, pulling the net with two long ropes in silence.
There is a small crowd of tourists this time of high season, and the weather is pleasantly mild. I wish it were even worse to discourage the spectators and enjoy the fishing in silence alone: just waves, hooves, and the flick of sea against canvas. Shrimp gather behind the mesh. Stefan rides out of the sea, transfers the shrimps from the net, freeing the bycaught fish and crabs. The small break for the horse is used to talk with people around. His funny, talkative, dad jokes flow. He is a celebrity here - a symbol of the town. One of the last few fishermen left to fish for the grey shrimps with the horse. The ritual passed down through the generations in Oostduinkerke. The heritage recognised by UNESCO as the Intangible Cultural Patrimony.
He’ll repeat the route a few times, no more. When the tide begins to climb, the work ends - two hours, sometimes less. The yield gets shorter every season. A decade ago, a good haul was a wheelbarrow. Now it’s two kilos or less. The tide still comes. The shrimp don’t always follow.
That’s the window now. Not just narrow but fragile.
The baskets are packed, Willem, Stefan and I on top of the carriage. Dina turns inland along a narrow track through dunes and polders. Shrubland gives way to farmland. The sea disappears behind us. On both sides: edible markers. Sea buckthorn. Wild asparagus. Herbs Willem names without needing to bend down. They talk about life, gossip and ingredients that might make it to a plate, or not.
Three kilometres on, the horse stops in front of Stefan’s place: part farmyard, part arc. Chickens, ducks, peacocks, and cats. Dogs come welcoming. Another horse grazing by a fence.
The shrimp don’t go inside just yet. Stefan lights the burner outdoors. Sea water and salt in a deep pan. Nothing else. The shrimp go in. Shells flush pink. When the heat rises, Stefan calms it down by pouring seawater on the sides. He stirs once, maybe twice, and once they are ready, he rests them for a moment on the net. They’re peeled while still warm, passed around, eaten as fingers allow. No seasoning. No ceremony. Just hands moving in rhythm. Picon is poured into small glasses. Bitter. Then herbal. Then gone. Dangerously light until it hits you.
No one says the shrimps are perfect, at least in words, busy with peeling and chewing. Juicy and sweet. It’s just how it’s done when the tide and the fire align. We didn’t eat them all. Not yet. That part came later - back at the house where Willem grew up, over bread and bisque, in the kitchen that came before the villa.
The Caviar of the North Sea
Not at the restaurant, but at the old fisherman’s house in Koksijde - now retired from service but still full of memories. We share the most important dish - the bisque made from those tiny grey shrimps we just caught. Just as Willem’s grandfather Jerome once did. They’re more work than they’re worth - until you taste them.
“As a little boy,” Willem once said, “I sat with my grandfather on his horse as it dragged nets through the water to catch shrimp. The first shrimp I ever tasted was freshly cooked and straight from the net. That’s my benchmark, so I’m strict about what I have the fishers bring in. I want only the best.”
The bisque tells you who Willem is and where he comes from. His grandmother Vermote peeled shrimp without even looking down. His grandfather played cards, alternating sips of coffee and brandy, while shrimp shells simmered quietly on the stove.
In Willem’s version, a generous portion of shrimp is served on the rye bread. The bisque is poured into his grandmother’s blue-and-white cups - deep, rich in umami, without that burnt-shell bitterness that spoils so many others. The cream with a pinch of coffee floats on top. The butter carries the aroma of brandy. One sip and you’re somewhere else. Not just you. The uhmmms and ahhhs make their way around the dining room. Grey shrimps. Eh.
Willem’s grandmother once called shrimps the caviar of the North Sea. He still does. Not a flourish. A memory ladled into porcelain.
The Kitchen That Responds
Willem’s kitchen doesn’t move fast. It moves on time. Prep starts in the morning. Whatever comes in that day is handled when it’s ready, and often, built into dishes as they’re being served. The brigade doesn’t assemble a pre-written meal. They follow Willem’s hand.
He stands near the stove, next to his sous chef. Watches. Plates. Steps in when the final element arrives. Sometimes it’s lobster. Sometimes it’s a beetroot. Often, he’s holding tongs with one hand and giving quiet praise with the other. There’s no hierarchy in posture. He peels, chops, adjusts, and corrects. He works as part of the same line, not above it. Leading by example.
At one point during service, something flickered. The electricity was gone. The light cut out. The staff didn’t even look up. No change of tempo. No shift in tone. When asked about it the next day, Willem shrugged: “I was just thinking if we’d have to move the rest to the grill.”
It’s a kitchen built not just on technique, but timing - à la minute in the true sense. It demands awareness, fluency, and calm. The students move like they’ve been there longer. The core team barely speaks. They already know what’s next.
The dining room
Guests move to the main dining room, passing through the kitchen. Open, welcoming, with one long station in the middle, the counter behind it and the heart of it - the fireplace. It feels closer to a private house than a restaurant kitchen. A place of motion, not display.
The dining room is spacious but quiet, with around twenty seats. Tables are set apart, each one given space to breathe. The music carries a steady beat that drifts with the view of the polders, calm but deliberate, the kind of rhythm that shapes the evening without drawing attention.
Come the first dishes served inside. Cockles and pumpkin seeds on a tartlet - compact, precise, a briny opening note. Then Belgian langoustines (Hachies), presented by Willem. Raw, creamy, and sweet, with an intense langoustine stock, dots of mayonnaise, celery for crunch, and a thread of acidity. At the centre, a crown of Belgian Royal Caviar.
Soon after arrives the seabass à la gravlax, cured in salt and homemade honey. Firm yet tender slices rest in freshly pressed, sweet almond milk and cockle jus infused with flowers. First blackberries bring acidity, salty solirod and herbs ground it, and a final touch of elderflower oil pulls the dish into balance. Spoons chase the liquid until nothing remains in the bowl.
The Turbot
There is a sudden movement among guests. Shoulders straighten. Conversations pause. Chefs enter the room with huge platters. The guests know something is coming. And it's a clear sign that it's time for the main fish course. As Willem only works with ingredients of the moment, the main fish may differ each night. But in my mind, I repeat: let it be turbot, please let it be the turbot. The fish arrives. My eyes smile to see the turbots, glistening, firm, bright-eyed, pulled from the water just hours before. Still cold to the touch. Lying on the metal platter, on the blanket of fresh leeks, carried around the room to each and every table, and the room gets hypnotised.
The Ceremony
Willem doesn’t say much. Neither do the two cooks beside him. The three step outside like a procession. Toward the grill. Or smoker. Or steamer. Whatever it is: three rusted legs, topped with a rack - more scrapyard than showpiece. First-timers barely glance at it through the glass wall in front of them. It hides in plain sight.
The fire takes coaxing. The fish wait. Wood is stacked like a pyre - slow, deliberate. Sparks hesitate, then catch. Flames fidget, then rise. Someone heads to the terrace - for a smoke or just an excuse to get closer. Then another. Soon, even the uninterested are watching.
The spectacle begins. A rack of leeks goes down like straw in a manger. The fish is laid on top. Trays cover it loosely. Then come the sacks - coffee bags, soaked, dripping, flung with a practised motion. They hit the steel with a hiss. Steam bleeds from the seams. The fire snaps back. The whole thing smells of salt, smoke, and something faintly vegetal.
And then - nothing. The curtain falls. Twenty minutes of silence. Guests return to wine and bread. Cutlery resumes its quiet music. The room exhales.
Until Willem says, "It's time," and the door opens again. The burlap is lifted. And the fish returns - whole, steaming, carried through the room like a king on a low chariot.
The Climax
The leeks have collapsed into something sweet. The turbot barely resists the fork. There’s no garnish, just clarity, juiciness, the perfect meat structure, the taste of the sea caught in the meat. The fire has changed it. The creamy, sticky essence of the bone sauce dressed it with the right saltiness and umami. The table knows it. Guests lean in, not to marvel but to understand. This is for sure one of the best turbot in the world, standing tall next to Extebarri and Elkano. This is the climax. The rest is the denouement. But not the end.
The Dessert Cart
After a stroopwafel baked in the fire, sliced and filled with butter, honey, and a trace of brandy, then a solid serving of cheese, the room shifts once more. Guests are invited to the lounge - low light, a record spinning, cocktails mixed to order. Coffee arrives alongside a cart that feels less like service and more like a memory Willem has carried with him. Before he was a chef of fire and fish, he was a pastry chef, and the discipline still shows in the precision of the sweets.
There’s a walnut miso tart with its deep, savoury sweetness; a mirabelle tart, delicate and golden; and profiteroles, perfectly thin-shelled, cream escaping at first bite. Alongside them, a set of traditional pastries taken from an old notebook - recipes passed down by a once-renowned Belgian pâtissier, now kept alive in Willem’s kitchen. The cart is abundant but never fussy. A quiet finale of craft and memory, taken with sips of bitter coffee and the herbal bite of a Negroni.
And still, Willem doesn’t quite stop. He walks back to the plate of white figs, splits one open, tastes, then calls over the pastry chef. “Maybe a tart,” he says, before listing half a dozen other possibilities. It isn’t a conclusion so much as a gesture - a reminder that the next dish, like the next tide, is already on its way.
Practicalities:
Restaurant Willem Hiele
Kapittelstraat 71, 8460 Oudenburg, Belgium
willemhiele.be
Reservations: +32 (0)468 00 66 99, info@willemhiele.be, or online here
Nearest city: 20 minutes from Ostend, 1 hour from Ghent, 1h20 from Brussels.
Open: Wed till Fri: evening [19.00], Sat: lunch [12.00] and dinner [19.00]
Awards:
- Michelin Guide Belgium 2025 — Retains one Michelin star.
- Gault & Millau Belgium 2025 — 16/20 points, three toques.
- The World’s 50 Best Restaurants 2025 — Ranked #62 globally, up from #83 in 2024.
All photos: Mona Biedrzycka (unless mentioned otherwise)
