Me doing Friedlander...

... minus the skill and Leica. But otherwise, completely the same.

Get in mah belly

Some leftover choccies needing a new home:

Powder at the office

Good morning, Dandy Crab

Wij zijn klaar voor de Sint

With sympathies to car owners

Put up the tree last night

Follow the path

Feeling flat

Flat pack furniture. Now there’s a thing. I’ve just returned from helping a Lady Friend assemble her Ikea wardrobe.

Her assumption: Ryan is male. He owns a hammer and a screwdriver. He weighs more than 40kg and has weight and strength behind him. He’s the man for the job.

However, as I am sure you are well aware, assumption is the mother of all screw-ups.

I am indeed a male. I do own a hammer and screwdriver. But these serve more as objets de art - collector pieces that have a rare aesthetic quality (in the sense that the less I see of them, the better).

I also weigh more than 40kg, but do not attribute this to strength, but in fact, to lethargy. Do less with more, is the general philosophy, here.

Lady Friend’s assembled wardrobe is of some considerable size. Well, of course it would be. However, it needed to be assembled in a room roughly about the same size as a newt’s arse (assuming that newts have arses). Space, however, was not to be my major challenge.

It was the printed, wordless instructions that proved to be my obstacle. Apparently a two-year old could understand these instructions. Would somebody please find this two-year old? What the hell would a two-year old be doing with a set of wordless instructions anyway – other than eating them?

Lady Friend speaks little Flemish and even less English (French is her mother tongue). I speak even less French than she speaks English. Communication, as you can imagine, is a joy.

Whilst assembling the furniture piece in the newt’s arse, I break into a sweat. Not from physical exertion you understand, but from frustration at being told what to do – in French.

Unfortunately “Would you shut the hell up, woman,” is not a phrase I am akin to in French.

Every breath I take. Every move I make. She is watching me. And commenting pointedly to the wordless instructions. If only she were wordless.

What added fat to the fire was that everything she said was right. Blasted. How is it that women can be so perceptive of wordless instructions?

Real men don’t need instructions, I was always lead to believe. Women, it seems, thrive on them – using them as tools to deprive men of their masculinity.

It all ended well enough, you’ll be pleased to know. Lady Friend has a nice new wardrobe. And we’re still on speaking terms (she speaking slightly more than I, which I think I’ve made abundantly clear to you by now).

How to be discreet: lesson #3

My friend Collins

2 measures of Bombay Dry Gin, freshly squeezed juice of half a lemon, slice or two of said lemon and Schweppes tonic water. Oh, and ice.

Literally hours of entertaining conversation is guaranteed. Even if it's only with yourself.

It starts

Autumn is peeking around the corner, now. But only just.

A nice local

The Pottekijker, on the Kaasrui, is a cheerful place to eat at. And just 'round the corner.

Roughly translated, I think it means 'one who looks at pots'. Which we've all done at some point in our lives, I imagine. Look at pots, I mean. Some can be quite remarkable in design. Which is why we would choose to look at them in the first place. But I digress.

Give this restaurant a try, if you're hungry. Or feel like looking at a pot. Well, actually, come to think of it, I can't recall seeing any pots around. Perhaps except for the mayo pot. I wonder why they called it that? Not the mayo; the restaurant. Keep up.

I'd suggest trying the 'Brochette "de pottekijker"' (roughly translated as 'kebab of the one who looks at pots'. Strange, isn't it?

Really generous, huge portions. And tasty. Nice cheerful wine, too. Well, it made me cheerful, in any event.

Pretty cool piece of design...

... for a sign.

Finished it and was thirsty

This was a pretty good book that I read up until the last page, which I suppose is customary amongst book-readers.

Strange markings

Found this tag at three different points around Antwerp. Anyone know who, why and wherefore?

Antwerp's first Chinese restaurant...

... is, if I got it right, Wah Kel. Stepping inside is like going back in time, with lacquer wood panelling, gold tassels and a doorbell over your table, which you can ding (or dong) if you want, for attention.

It's an adventure! Snug in the heart of Antwerp's red light district, you'll be one of a truly varied clientèle hailing from in and around the nearby streets. Sailors, pretty girls, pretty used-to-be-a-boys, families, sons and daughters who eat plates and plates of delicious fare, Chinese in nature. But whatever you are, you'll get the same delightful, friendly service.

It's fatty, it's greasy, and I love it!

The Conn...

... and others of notable (and imagined) facial hair.

Happy birthday, Harald!

Enter the Dome

Here's the first-ever Michelin Star restaurant I've been to. I'd give you their web address, but it appears to be down. Grand enjoyment. On a grand scale. And then some.

We stayed eating, drinking and enjoying for four hours straight, excluding toilet breaks. Pretty bloody fantastic.

A cup of the good stuff

Starbucks opened their doors in Antwerp Central Station a few months ago, to much fanfare. So I know that Starbucks is this hugely successful brand and that blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. But my. A cuppa of their freshest is the price of a small mortgage .

Deli France is my favourite at the station. For but a few coins (no paper money is involved), you can, would you believe, ask for a cup of coffee using those exact words, and they will understand what you mean. They will also produce one without having to use a machine that sounds like it is spitting or throwing-up into your cup. Highly recommended.

The Godfather of Soul on Wolstraat

Try not to look up all the time.

The floor can look pretty, too.

I know it's disgusting. But I like it.

I don't know what amazes me more...

... the fact that there's a guy playing a violin sat at the bar, or that my glass is empty (and I'm still having fun).

Roger plays the piano. With Rosé.

Working hard at Lambermontmartre on Sunday: part deux

Followed by a(nother) drink in the most civilized fashion at Amuse. Good fun.

Fantastic, friendly and French

I tried this restaurant in Antwerp Old Town (Zirkstraat) last week.

Scrumptious (which is a difficult word for me to spell, without the aid of a dictionary. But I looked it up. That's how good).

Why I like Belgium: reason #5

The Kempen.

Here's a really lovely restaurant

It's called Raven, and you'll find it on the Grote Markt. Dee-licious food, with even more dee-lightful wine. Certainly worth a visit.

Waiting for Tram #15

Beer cans aren't mine. Honest.

Golden solden

Tall Ships Races hit Antwerp

Saw some ships yesterday evening that are part of the Tall Ships Races docking in Antwerp this weekend.

No news yet on when the Short Ships will arrive. Assuming anyone spots them, of course.

New finds on Klapdorp

Unique little bar on-slash-off Klapdorp:

And another, whose name I forget, but with a whole lot of chandelier:

Why I like Belgium: reason #12

Belgians, or certainly the ones I've met, are exceptionally proficient at cooking steak.

But the Emperor of Steak Bakers you'll find at this restaurant. Quite simply, the best steak I have eaten in this land.

But.

Round. Ball-shaped. Semi-circular. Elliptical. Globular. I look down, and I notice evidence of a most unsettling nature. My belly, once flat, is no more. It is still my belly, of course. But flat it is not.

It would be flat. If the degree of flatness that I desire required absolutely no effort whatsoever. But it seems that flatness requires some degree of effort. Which almost completely rules me out of the equation.

It's not that I'm lazy, you understand. It's just that I find the concept of exercise rather boring. If, for example, exercise held the same degree of excitement, enjoyment and sociability that, say, eating did, then I quite simply would not be writing this post.

If I had the body of a twenty-year old... well, I would probably be a serial killer.

As I see it, I don't have an exercise problem. Nor a weight problem. What I have is a food problem. Or, to be more precise, a Belgian food problem. The ruddy blighters do the food thing so incredibly well, here.

Pray for me.

Working hard at Lambermontmartre on Sunday

Sometimes it's here...

Why I like Belgium: reason #62

Terras-ke doen!

Double-you

Burn baby, burn

The Lady with the Spinning Head

Joy #1

Antwerp on a sunny day in May

Picnickin'

People don't wear enough hats

Here's a rather lovely sign you'll see at most construction sites around Antwerp. It seems to suggest that you have to wear at least one part of the costume shown in a Magritte painting before they'll let you in.

What if you show up with just an apple?