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?

Why I like Belgium: reason #7

Sometimes you'll find a piano player in a bar. And you'll know he's a piano player because he's playing a (wait for it) piano.

Without the piano, said player would simply be a person in a bar, wandering what on earth to do with his fingers. Oh, behave.

Thumper

I fell last week. Rather hard, mind. Left a scar on my head, which is not the most inconspicuous of places to have a scar, but I had very little choice in the matter.

My story - and I'm sticking to it - is that I was helping a fair maiden traverse rather treacherous terrain (called 'pavement' in these here parts). Whether she indeed needed help, or perhaps that she was helping me, is irrelevant as I see it.

The next thing I can remember was seeing how quickly the pavement was moving in the general direction of my head. It hit me in the exact same spot - would you believe - where I got the scar. Had I the chance, I would have sworn. But as my mouth was very quickly filled with pavement, I did not.

And yes, there was alcohol involved. But a whole lot more pavement. Which makes the issue of alcohol irrelevant, too.

My past week has been somewhat tainted with dizziness, forgetfulness and an almost complete inability to tie my shoelaces in the fashion I am accustomed.

Many thanks to the countless friends, colleagues and family - who upon seeing me, offered comforting cheers such as 'Ha ha', 'Idiot' and 'Pavement boy'. Without your support, I could not have made it through.

Lessons in The Mundane

Here's a post I wrote I couple of years ago. It's called 'Ritual and Sacrifice':

It’s the year 2007. We have the Internet, high definition TV, self-cleaning ovens and hybrid cars.

But in spite of all these wondrous advancements that make the life of modern people easier, there remains one savage, brutal and ghastly task. One activity that has not developed over the ages; one that has not become easier.

If you have not guessed already, I am talking about the demonic task of laundry. Laundry at the laundro-mat. Even the barbaric Mayans had no such ruthless ritual of laundry at the laundro-mat. Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition.

Laundry. I used to enjoy it. But no more. Each visit to the laundro-mat results in penance. In sacrifice.

And the high priestesses of washing (women) leave us peasants (men) in ignorance.

Ask a question to a high priestess and she will give you an answer in a language none of us understand; the language of Colour, Softener and Spin Cycle.

Now, please understand, I am not being chauvinistic. I believe that women, still to this day, have had to work harder than men to achieve. But, perhaps in silent revenge, they have made a pact with women all over the planet, to – much like the Freemasons – keep the proper ritual and practice of laundry secret.

The result is catastrophic. Men, like me, are forced to sacrifice many socks (only one at a time, mind), colours and shapes per visit to the laundro-mat.

I think the god (who is not really a god, just someone with lots of mismatching socks) of laundry is well pleased with the feed after each of my visits.

My visits to the altar - the Wishee Washee as it is called colloquially – are almost always a plight against despair. Other men gather, too. There’s almost always a priestess there. With a knowing glare, a book which she pretends to read, and I think a hidden camera.

The men know of her powers. Of her strength. But our inert will to succeed (some call it stupidity) prevent us from asking the priestess for wisdom. We men look amongst each other. The question is obvious. What temperature?

A magical coin is extracted from one of the peasant’s pockets. Well, let’s see. There is a selection of 5 temperatures on the washing machine. 20 is too cold. And surely 80 is too hot. We want clean clothes, not boiled potatoes. And so we take the difference between the two and end up with a choice of 40 or 60. The magic coin is flipped, heads it’s 40 and so on.

Our first challenge is passed. Or is it? The priestess pretends not to notice our endeavours. She makes no comment, but exhales a series of “Pfhmss” and “Tsk, tsks” just to try and make us loose concentration, I believe.

We are unwavering. Next it’s to decide where to actually pour the powder. And what if you have powder blocks? What are you supposed to do then?

Tears well up in one of the men’s eyes. The pressure is too great. He breaks rank and looks to the priestess. She points slowly to the East. Which is more or less in the direction of the pictorial instructions that are hung from the wall. Blasted. Instructions.

We can tell the look in her eyes. She thinks we are idiots. She knows much.

Next we proceed to put our washing in. I feel brave. I put everything together. I want to get out of the hellish place as fast as possible, so I make no separation. “It don’t matter if you’re black or white” as the song goes.

I can feel the eyes of the high priestess down the back of my neck. I break out in a cold sweat.

The other men, sensing her displeasure, have bolted.

She clears her throat with a giggle and proceeds to say nothing.

The machine speaks to me. As soon as I close and lock the door, it says “38 minutes” until the cycle of death is completed.

It is at this point that the black magic bursts forth from the deepest crevices of hell, and – without opening the door of the machine – internally combusts each and every item of clothing within.

Water and powder cannot produce such chaotic effect. No. A darker force is at work here.

If you can, stay away. The Wishee-Washee is no place for men.