The One-Year Mark

J and I have officially lived in Brussels for a year as of today, which seems like good enough of a reason to break out of a blogging funk. One year in, some likes, dislikes, and random opinions:

+ As a city to live in, Brussels really is easy, comfortable, and manageable. That being said, what provides the ease and comfort can also become a downside: at times it feels outright boring.
+ The possibility of having a gorgeous apartment for a fraction of the cost elsewhere, again ameliorating the quality of living.
+ The open-air markets and the fresh, unprocessed food they provide.
+ The quality of the healthcare.
+ The opportunity to speak French.
+ The wackiness. Which actually usually comes disguised as inconvenience and frustration until some time (like, a year) has passed.

- The sheer shabbiness of it all (without, sadly, much chic to speak of). Brussels can really feel like the neglected, redheaded stepchild of Belgium. And the rat-like graffiti . . .
- The racism, which could actually be more of a Europe-wide phenomenon.
- The lack of interest in commerce.
- The fact that most main courses at any decent restaurant cost upwards of 20€.
- The pigeons on our terrace and elsewhere, who seem to have followed us from NYC.
- The fact that one can easily be run over by a car while stepping in dog poop on a sidewalk - given the high probability of each event separately.

Deep Breaths

Mindfulness skills are key to daily life here: just noticing, accepting, and not judging are essential to survival. To illustrate, a couple of scenarios in which the aforementioned skills (would) have been greatly helpful recently:

- Going to Dexia to withdraw some cash from an ATM (not even the infamously slow one in Place Châtelain, which wears out even the Europeans standing in line - not just impatient Americans). Only 2 out of 5 cash machines were working, so the line went out the door. To add insult to injury, everyone kept on trying to cut the line.

- Going to Prémaman on Chaussée d'Ixelles to register for an upcoming baby shower in the States. It was mid-day during the week; the store was completely empty. I was kindly informed by one of the three salespeople that it was "far too early" to register for a baby that's due in late October. In all fairness, Europeans do not have showers and tend to buy gifts after the baby is born. So I explained that my shower would take place in early August, which led a greatly pained expression to form on her face. Well, she said, if I really wanted to, I could register for some essentials, as the seasonally appropriate clothing (for babies?) would not arrive until later in the summer. "Great," I said, "Could you help me with picking out some essentials?" To which she replied by placing a catalogue and checklist in my hands, telling me to take it home so that "we won't waste any of your time, and you won't waste ours." 
 
- Dropping off my dry cleaning. For the first time in my life, I noticed that the dry cleaners were actually selling unclaimed items for 5€ apiece. (I'm aware of the threat on the ticket that they will do so, if you don't claim your dry cleaning within, say, 90 days, but I've never actually seen the policy actively put into practice.) The woman at the counter was quite nice, but informed me with a smile that, while I could certainly drop off my items, the dry cleaners to whom they outsource were, in fact, en congé, and I would not be able to pick them up until the end of the month (i.e., about a month from now). After a moment's hesitation (i.e., I was actually considering waiting a month for dry cleaning), I told her I would go elsewhere. She smiled and agreed that was a good idea.

Bruges: Antiques, Crafts and Train Tickets

One reason for my absence of late is the presence of visitors, which in turn brought me to Bruges (for the nth time) this past week. While there, we stumbled upon a lovely antiques/crafts shop called Au Bonheur des Dames. The shop is run by Sophie, a very sweet Bruges native who also teaches various crafting workshops, including one in which one learns how to make a hilarious teddy bear pencil holder/étui.

I also could not resist buying a between-the-wars KPM tea set at the fantastic (and reduced-on-the-spot) price of 65€, along with some antique fabric for reupholstering. Let me know if you would like to join me for a crafting class . . . 

From this trip, I learned that train tickets to Bruges are significantly costlier during the week (25€ vs. 14€ round trip). I also bought my tickets online and thought I was being exceedingly clever when I picked the option of "storing" the tickets on my electronic ID card. Unfortunately, the Flemish conductor was not as impressed when she could not locate the tickets on my card with her bulky cardreader. (She let us off the hook once I showed her the receipt, which luckily I had printed out.) Later, on the return visit, another conductor gave me some more grief for not having validated my electronic tickets on the way there. Unfortunately, no amount of explaining - in Dutch! - could remedy the situation. In the future, I will simply print out a paper ticket.

Some Love from the NYT

These are a bit (i.e., days) old now, but was surprised to see two articles in the NYT this week - one pertaining directly to Brussels and another to a castle with a purportedly excellent garden relatively near here. I should probably also start reading Le Soir and De Standaard . . . 

Car Shopping à la Belge

Today we took two separate trams to Drogenbos to do some car shopping. And . . . wow. Never would I go so far as to say I miss car shopping in the U.S., where the greasy used car salesman is a well-tread stereotype (usually lived up to or surpassed). And yet, I have never in my life encountered salespeople as passive as these. Not that I am unaccustomed, at this point, to hearing Ce n'est pas possible upon entering a store, or a local vendor being exceptionellement fermé on the day you happened to count on them being open. But not until we went shopping for a car - as our purchases go, a fairly big-ticket item - did I realize the extent of this country's lack of interest in commerce.

Our first stop was MyWay, a VW, Audi, and Skoda dealer, which came recommended by a Belgian friend. I asked upon entering the showroom whether they had occasions/tweedehandse auto's. In response, I was first met by a blank stare, which then morphed into a facial expression that was basically the equivalent of "Duh," and told in English to "go look around in the lot outside, and write down the number of the parking spot if you're interested." Bowled over by his aggressive sales tactics, J and I did as instructed. Some cars were marked with year, mileage and price; others weren't. Similar cars were identically priced, but somehow the estimated monthly payment fluctuated wildly. The highly motivated salesperson later explained that "these numbers are meaningless, just the calculations of the marketing people." From whom, it seemed, he could stand to learn a few tricks.

After marking the numbers of the cars we liked, we tried to ask some questions while standing opposite the desk where our distinguished salesperson was lounging. At no point did he invite us to sit down, or did his mildly irritated facial expression, as if we were bothering rather than trying to buy a car from him, leave his face. It was almot impossible to extract anything beyond basic information from him, and even the basics ("How would you compare diesel to gasoline?" "What are the advantages of the Turbo Diesel vs. the Trendline?") were elusive. Rather than answering our questions, or uttering a single phrase that might spur us to purchase a vehicle, he appeared perfectly satisfied to respond exclusively with facial expressions conveying something along the lines of "What are you, stupid?" (He spoke English fairly well, so language wasn't the problem.) Right before we decided to leave, he deigned to recommend two cars on the lot that we might consider. But by that point, we had been on the premises for almost an hour, and were beyond discouraged.

We decided to visit a couple of other dealers in the vicinity, with somewhat dissimilar but equally bizarre results. The saleswoman at Ford was more motivated - although we had to approach her in her office, where she was chatting with a colleague. Here, too, most of our questions were answered with facial expressions along the lines of "What, do you have a brain the size of a pea?" This included the question about financing, to which she responded, "Well, if you really want a financing plan from us, we can work it out, probably, but why don't you just go to the bank?" (Maybe because you can make more money off of us if you just answer the question and offer a financing plan.) She then pulled out a calculator, but only while sighing as if we had asked for her first-born child.

Another stop was the Fiat dealer, who did not have used cars, so we stopped to admire the Cinquecento. I explained to the beachwear-clad salesperson that I liked the car a lot, but that we were expecting a baby, and it was probably too small for us. To which he replied, Désolé, or "I'm sorry." A greasy American salesperson would have quickly ushered us to a car the next size up, but not so in Belgium.

Prague

I realize it has been a good long while since my last post. But we've had quite a few visitors as of late, and last week I was able to sneak off to Prague, Bratislava, and Vienna to accompany J on a work trip. And I have to say, one of the best things about living in Brussels is still the fact that places like Prague are just an hour away by plane. Speaking of air travel, we decided to chance it with discount airline Sky Europe, which bills itself "Central Europe's first low fare low cost airline." It was fine on the way out (even though you have to pay for your beverages), but a horror coming back from Vienna (flight delayed 3.5 hours, coupled with whiplash-inducing landing).    

But let's get back to Prague, shall we. It was my first time, and I have to admit I fell in love a little bit.  Walking around, it's tough to find a street corner that's not photogenic, to the point where I was worried I wouldn't have room left on my memory card for Bratislava and Vienna. Locals were very friendly and a bit wacky (my favorite combination), and most spoke English. Unfortunately, I had to pack my whole experience into little more than 24 hours, due to our travel schedule. But here's what I did:

11:00PM Tuesday. Upon arrival, gaze longingly out of hotel window at Prague Castle. Hotel was slightly weird (full kitchen but no cutlery?) but well-located in Mala Strana.
10:00AM Wednesday. Start leisurely walk to Gehry's Dancing (or Fred and Ginger) Building along the river. Cross Charles Bridge, which is already swarmed with tourists, into Stare Mesto. Consider buying "Kaffee mit Kafka" mug but decide against it (probably should have, given amount of Czech Koruna left).
11:00AM. Stumble across excellent Contemporary European Glass Sculpture exhibit. Visit it.
12:00 PM. Having taken a few pics of Dancing building (I'm surprised to be the only dork visibly doing so), wander from Nove Mesto to Stare Mesto.

12:30 PM. Mildly entertaining walking tour of Wenceslas Square courtesy of Lonely Planet (I love LP's walking tours - I just can't help it.) Allows me to take a few pics, including gorgeous Tesla Radio stained-glass window and Horse by David Cerny (whom, fatefully, we will see later that night). Slightly disappointed by Cubist lamppost. Sit down in Franciscan garden for a rest but have to move after overhearing two Irish guys' obnoxious conversation ("They're getting married?" "Well, you know how all women are. They just want to tie you down.")
1:30 PM. Inquire at gym/spa near Franciscan garden about possibility of getting a pedicure. Despite heavy use of charades, am shown to tanning booth. What does one have to do in Europe to get a pedicure?
2:00 PM. Getting really hungry now. After wandering through Old Town Square and its throngs of tourists, catching a glimpse of the Astronomical Clock, end up having lunch in garden of cute little restaurant Alma. Pay less than 6€ for excellent 2-course meal and beverage. Decide to travel only to countries that have not yet adopted € from now on.
3:30 PM. Meander around Josefov's Jewish museum sites. Realize most of the people here are Jewish American families from Long Island and New Jersey. Some of them seem to be eyeing me, wondering what exactly this Asian girl is doing here. Learn from LP that the reason these sites are so well preserved is that the Nazis preserved them because they planned to build a 'museum of an extinct race.'
4:30 PM. Consider buying Golem book, but decide against it. Consider buying Mucha 2010 calendar (shopkeeper pulls out three alternative versions as soon as she sees me eyeing one - Czechs appear refreshingly interested in commerce, at least compared to "Ce n'est pas possible" Belgians), but feel Art Nouveau'd out by Brussels. And apparently having a cheap day.
5:00 PM. See NYU in Prague campus sign. Have a little giggle. (Used to work for NYU.) 
5:30 PM. Return to hotel for nap. After all, am with child.
8:00 PM. J and I meet fellow journos (of his) at Palace Hotel. En route, manage to make up for day without commerce by picking up a few items at Botanicus. (From NYT article. See also their latest take on Prague, which came out after we left.)
9:00 PM. Have been escorted by Czech journalist, via walk and tram, to "tourist-free" pub in Mala Strana. Wish I remembered the name (it's near the American Embassy). Have another cheap meal (my first in an endless series of Wienerschnitzels on this trip). Go downstairs to book launch party of local macroeconomist. Apparently, the whole town is here (and getting down on the dancefloor), including local "bad boy" David Czerny of Entropa fame/infamy. Turns out Czerny only wears his signature black wifebeater, because his last name means "black" in Czech. His girlfriend seems to have gotten the memo and is wearing a matching outfit. Czech intelligentsia remind me vaguely of college.
12:00 AM. Time to call it a night. Leaving early for Bratislava the following morning.

(Slightly less-detailed posts on Bratislava, Vienna, and Wachau to follow.)       

"How I Learned to Love the European Welfare State"

Not sure I'm there yet, but here's an article from today's NYT Magazine that I found interesting in light of certain parallels between the Dutch and Belgian social welfare systems (the differences are many, too), and in the context of impending health care reform in the U.S. Also, after my family lived in the Netherlands from the mid '80s to the early '90s, my parents became committed Democrats after having voted straight Republican tickets from the day they became U.S. citizens - in part because they felt the Dutch system worked.

I would also like to add to the quote from the former McKinsey consultant ("If you tell a Dutch person you’re going to raise his taxes by 500 euros and that it will go to help the poor, he’ll say O.K. But if you say he’s going to get a 500-euro tax cut, with the idea that he will give it to the poor, he won’t do it."). Well, if you tell a Dutch person you're going to raise his taxes by 500 euros and that it will go to help poor Dutch citizens of Turkish and Moroccan descent, he might not say O.K. Or say O.K. begrudgingly and go vote for the far Right party.

Parents' Visit, Au Thé de Pékin

My parents came for a visit last week. They'd spent some time in Brussels before, so were willing to skip the usual tourist destinations. We spent a lot of the week scouring open-air food markets, as my parents are possibly even more serious about food than I am. (They were super-psyched to find herring matjes and an abundance of white asparagus.) One thing that's funny about my parents is that, almost 40 years after emigrating to the United States from Taiwan, they still cannot travel without seeking out Chinese food. So a trip to Brussels Chinatown was mandatory - for a meal, and to set me up with a local purveyor of Chinese supermarket foods. Before their visit, I had gotten by with visits to Super Store Tagawa (Chaussée de Vleurgat, 119) but was eager to find both a Chinese supermarket and go-to restaurant. As usual, the 'rents delivered: we had a fantastic meal at Au Thé de Pékin (Rue de la Vierge Noire, 16-24), and I will be going to the smelly (and thus authentic?) Kam Yuen (Rue de la Vierge Noire, 2-4) for all future Chinese cooking needs.

At Au Thé de Pékin, I would stick with the non-dim sum menu; I read somewhere that all dim sum in Brussels is frozen and brought here from Paris, although I don't know whether this is true of ATP's. What I do know is that they don't bring it around steaming on carts, but that's probably due to lack of volume and demand. That being said, the dim sum assortment for two was perfectly passable and included some verifiably juicy xiao long bao (loosely translated, little juicy buns). In even better form were the gan cao niu he (stir-fried wide rice noodles with beef), kong xin cai (sautéed water spinach), ji ding (chicken) with cashew, and shrimp with vegetables. My mom even went so far as to pronounce the dishes "possibly better than Joe's Shanghai," our predictable but trustworthy New York mainstay. I agree, except for the xiao long bao.

Hiatus Over, New Blog

You may have been wondering where I've been lately, with nary a post since early this month. Well, the honest truth is that I've been incapacitated by nausea - make that "morning" sickness of the morning, day, and night variety. Now that I've entered my second trimester and the cat's out of the bag, feel free to read about my (mis)adventures in becoming a parent in a foreign country.

Passover, Au Pays des Merveilles

Passover's coming up next week, and I was thinking of trying to help J throw together a seder - until I realized I have absolutely no idea where to procure the ingredients. (The koshermonger?) I am not Jewish, but J is, and in New York we occasionally hosted a seder for a mix of Jewish and gentile friends, usually with a ceremony obtained from the internet (as opposed to the Maxwell House version used by J's parents). One google search led to another, and eventually I found a list or two of Jewish traiteurs and kosher restaurants in the area.

Along the way, I also found a fellow expat's blog which mentioned a bagel place in Saint Gilles, Au Pays des Merveilles. Driven by a mixture of homesickness and yearning for Jewish food (J has always said my stomach is more Jewish than his), we paid a visit today. The weather was unusually sunny and warm, so we sat on the terrace outside. The waiter, unfortunately, was neither service- nor detail-oriented. After screwing up the order for the table next to ours, he brought me a rather strange concoction: cream cheese with little pieces of red onion mixed in, with golden raisins and sliced apple on a poppyseed bagel. I had ordered a sesame bagel with cinnamon, honey, raisin, and walnut cream cheese. Go figure. That said, the bagels were tasty enough (more like Bruegger's or Einstein Bros. than Murray's, Ess-a-bagel, or H&H, but still), and it's fun to order an everything bagel as "un bagel everything."

Tournament of Books

For some years now, I have been religiously following The Morning News' Tournament of Books, a literary competition (of sorts) styled after March Madness brackets, a self-described "annual battle royale between 16 of the best novels published in the previous year." While in New York, I would try to convince my fellow bookclub members to actually participate in a pool - usually to no avail. But even from rainy Brussels, I can follow the proceedings, which also involve a "Zombie round," in which previously defeated books with the greatest popular support are given one more chance, right before the finals (imagine if this happened in the NCAA). Best of all, the winner receives an actual, live Rooster - in honor of David Sedaris' brother by the same nickname in Me Talk Pretty One Day. This year,  I was saddened by the early defeats of Netherland and Unaccustomed Earth, but will definitely stay tuned tomorrow when the results of the championship match are announced.       

Lady GaGa

IMAGE VIA DAGUNKZ-REMIX-BLOGSPOT.COM
I can't believe I'm blogging about this - but what I really can't believe is that Lady GaGa is actually American. Because, Really?! When I first saw her video at the gym, I just assumed she was one of legions of Euro pop tarts. Imagine my surprise when it turned out she was American. More than anything, she seems straight out of a terrible SNL skit like "Deep House Dish," a joke-as-emblem of exactly the type of European phenomenon that Americans would label/mock as "Euro," with or without "trash" as suffix. Just look at the crystal mask from the future. Maybe there's some elaborate joke I'm not getting. But otherwise, shame on you, Mark Ronson.

Harassment

Brussels-based expat mag The Bulletin caused a big uproar recently with an article entitled "Single, but not safe, in the city." According to the article, which cites an attempted strangulation in January and testimonials from a number of the author's friends, verbal and physical attacks on women are rampant in Brussels. Which is terrible, obviously, but not something I was really aware of. After the article was published, J's secretary asked him to tell me she thought the article was a bunch of baloney, but one of J's colleagues countered that his Scandinavian partner gets harassed all the time.

All this talk about the article made me realize something: whereas I had become used to the highly annoying and offensive catcalls most women receive on a routine basis in New York, I have not been subject to verbal harassment a single time since moving to Brussels. (Unless you're counting all the ni haos, that is.) When I told one of my friends in New York about the contrast, she responded matter-of-factly, "Of course not, you're an oddity to them." By which she meant that my Asian- and other-ness has unexpectedly rendered me immune to harassment. Which is just fine by me - I'll happily take it.    

Skinny Mec and Smurfette

Every morning around 6:30 AM, like clockwork, footsteps best described as belonging to a mythical giant begin to resound in our bedroom. What's most miraculous is that this noise is being produced by our diminutive upstairs neighbors, a young French couple - he a skinny mec, and she, frankly, no taller than a dwarf - hence the nickname Smurfette.
Unfortunately, we live in an old maison de maître, with paperthin floors and ceilings. And under the floorboards, which once harbored fleas, there is no insulation. Which is why J went upstairs a few nights ago intending to have a friendly, neighborly talk - more along the lines of "We're all in this together; do you mind paying a little attention?" rather than "Keep it down!"
Smurfette (who is, in all fairness, very nice) answered the door and immediately called for Skinny Mec, as she speaks no English. (I had considered going up myself, but after deliberating with J, decided my French might lack politesse.) J explained the situation - thin floors, no insulation, lots of noise - in the least confrontational and accusatory way possible.
At this point, Skinny Mec completely flipped: "Non, I weell not! You cannot tell mee how to leeve! I weell not leeve like dat!" He went on . . . and on, throwing a prototypical French fit straight out of the kitchen of a Disney movie. I could hear him downstairs and pictured smoke coming out of his ears. With his tail between his legs, J came back downstairs. Poor guy. Being a nice, reasonable person, J almost wondered if Skinny Mec's inexplicable tirade meant he had done something wrong.
Of course not. But afterwards, we sat for a while in our apartment, contemplating the episode in complete consternation. For one, did Skinny Mec and Smurfette really find it outrageous to be asked to be slightly considerate of their fellow neighbors?
Which, unfortunately, opens up an altogether broader topic - that of level of consideration, and whether we as Americans are perhaps overly polite. People do not open doors for you here, preferring to let them slam in your face as you're entering a building. (Apparently, it's because Belgian women take offense if a man holds a door open for them - but I don't entirely buy this explanation.) Petty line cutting is common. And the other day, while my friend and I were walking on Avenue Louise, an older, quite bourgeois Belgian lady decided to bulldoze between us, parting the distance between us as if it were the Red Sea. To which I can only say: Really?! I thought people from New York were supposed to be rude.

Mail Strike

PHOTO VIA PHOTOBUCKET
There was a mail strike here earlier this week. Really. We even got a little warning email from DVDPost, the Belgian version of Netflix.
A few comments on the Belgian mail service:
- Its usual functioning could almost fool you into thinking they're striking, even when they are not. L'il Sis received her birthday card almost 3 weeks late, about a month after I sent it. Mail that arrives late is still luckier than mail that does not arrive at all, which also happens.
- If you're going to the post office, good luck.
- I love the new self-adhesive Smurf stamps.

Real Estate

Not sure what the NY Times is thinking, but J found this "Great Homes and Destinations" feature on a townhouse for sale in . . . Brussels. Because there are so many people moving from NYC to Brussels? Or who desire a pied à terre here? Didn't think so. But anyway, I know exactly where this house is (and when I was house hunting, saw one of the apartments next to it). I agree it's a nice location, with a lovely low-key, high-cuisine restaurant (Parachute Parc) around the corner.

Driver's License

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I spent a good two-and-a-half hours at the lovely St. Gilles commune today. I needed to go there for my certificat de bonne vie et moeurs, or background check, for my work permit application, to certify that I haven't committed any crimes in the five short months I've spent here. Shockingly, it only took about five minutes for the document to be printed, stickered, stamped with the requisite number of official stamps, and signed (across the stamps and stickers, to enhance its feeling of authenticity and official-ness). Emboldened by the swiftness of this transaction, I thought I would try my hand at the driver's license counter.
I naïvely walked through the door marked Permis de conduire and explained my case: I recently moved here, have an American driver's license and realize I must replace my American license with a Belgian one. The bureaucrat (and by that I really mean Platonic form of bureacrat, as Belgium produces a good many of these) attentively listened to my less-than-perfect French, inexplicably snatched my certificat de bonne vie et moeurs out of my hands, thoroughly inspected it, dismissively handed it back, and demanded where my ticket was. Turns out I was supposed to take a ticket outside the door, in the style of visiting a butcher/baker/cheesemonger. I apologized and took a ticket, and the waiting commenced. 

I waited long enough to finish "The First Night" of The White Tiger - thank god I brought a book. The scene outside the bureau could best be described as civic unrest - other people-in-waiting shaking their heads, sighing, complaining to one another and to friends and loved ones on their cell phones, in multiple languages, occasionally barging through the door, demanding to be seen a little sooner. All ineffectively, of course.

Eventually my number was called. I explained my case, again, to the other bureaucrat. He took my New York driver's license and inspected it thoroughly, bending it, deciphering it, committing various acts short of smelling it. After reading that I was born in Texas, he and his colleague began singing a charming song consisting of the sole word "Texas." It lasted a while. At some point, he complained that the license's hologram hurt his eyes. I tried to explain that it was supposed to prevent fraud, but could not think of the French word for "to falsify" and gave up. He then began to scan a giant database on his computer, presumably a list of driver's license provenances reciprocated here in Belgium. At some point he exclaimed "Aha, New York State, ça va!" which presumably meant I was in luck. Well, sort of. 

It turns out that, in order for my license to be traded for a Belgian one, I have to give it - and all driving privileges - up for at least a month, during which time the Belgian police will "investigate" my license. Should they find it worthy, I will then become the proud owner of a low-tech, non-hologram Belgian license constructed of paper. And my American license will be stored for the duration of my stay in a safe in St. Gilles commune. And although it felt a little bit like signing my soul away, I said, yes, that's what I would like to do.

Master Chef vs. Top Chef

PHOTO VIA BBC.CO.UK
I miss a lot of my TV shows. A friend asked recently if I've been watching Big Love, and the sad but obvious answer was no. I briefly considered buying the season pass for Lost on iTunes, but decided I didn't want to shell out actual money for the ultimate wind-up. Top Chef is another show I don't watch anymore - not because it's not on here, but because Belgian TV (on which one channel, Vitaya, appears dedicated exclusively to reality TV) is about three seasons behind.
BBC, however, has its own reality cooking show, or as they call it, "cookery competition" - Master Chef. And I was thinking tonight that I might actually like it better. Here's why:
1. No annoying Padma. Seriously, is she on prescription painkillers? Everything she says is soooo draaaaaawn ouuut. Those commercials where she was dancing were so . . . embarrassing. And she is obviously too skinny to know the first thing about food. I do miss Tom Colicchio, though.
2. I think they make the contestants work harder on Master Chef. Tonight, they sent them to Buckingham Palace to cook for the employees' cafeteria lunch service there. Not an easy job, and not likely to prompt illusions along the lines of "I could do that!" Last week, each contestant went to a well-known London restaurant to carry the lunch service. (Notice that they're not sent during dinner.) This all stands in stark contrast to, say, preparing for a cook-off before a ballgame.
3. There is less drama - the contestants are simply there to cook. Sure, one could argue that this makes the British show less fun to watch. But I can do without - at some point Top Chef began to suffer from Project Runway-itis, i.e., when it becomes obvious that not even the top contender will actually become the celebrity chef (or designer) for whose job they are supposedly vying.
4. Also, MasterChef is on several times per week. And not even at the same time, just to make things more interesting!

La Cuisine and Pudding Rock

PHOTO OF LA CUISINE VIA VINO GUSTO
As you may have noticed, I've been slacking on the blog lately. Perhaps J and I are, quite simply, getting used to Brussels and having fewer Eureka! moments (this excludes our conclusion the other day that being here is a little like Lost - the expats are the plane crash survivors, the locals are The Others, and you're always wondering if there might be more of you, especially ones from New York. But anyway.)

As I've mentioned before, one thing that very seldom fails us here, even when (or particularly when) we're feeling disgruntled or lonely, is the food. In that vein, brief reviews of two restaurants we recently visited:

La Cuisine, Rue Lesbroussart, 85. I've walked by this place many times and found it fetching enough to look at, but then succumbed to the charms of its even-more-beckoning neighbors L'Annexe and Chez Oki. Which, it turns out, is not entirely fair to this little gem of a restaurant, which serves typical Belgo-French (and then some) fare. The night we went, J had mushroom toast and Argentine-style steak, whereas I started with carrot soup, followed by roasted skate and delicious Brussels sprout stoemp (for those who don't know, like me upon arriving here, stoemp is basically mashed potatoes with something else, usually a veggie, mixed in). Dessert: an equally delightful rhubarb tart. All in all, an enjoyable, affordable neighborhoody joint that I would wholeheartedly recommend.

Pudding Rock, Rue du Mail, 76. Like La Cuisine, and most other finds in Brussels, I discovered this place on a walk (in fact, my thrice-weekly walk to French school, which I recently re-started). Went there with some friends for lunch last Friday, and was more than pleasantly surprised: from the tuna tartare amuse bouche to the very last dish of my tasting platter (or, really, tray), I was reminded of much more expensive - and pretentious - restaurants in Manhattan. Which is probably what I like best about Brussels' (and most of Europe's) foodie scene - yes, there are the Michelin-rated institutions, all of which I would like to visit at some point. But in the mean time, a seemingly endless supply of other, more moderately priced restaurants will accommodate my credit-crunched wallet. Although the origins of Pudding Rock's name remain elusive (the interior was vaguely Scottish, the way, say, Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B. line is), the quality of the food was unambiguous. Somehow, the chicon (endive) purée was reminiscent of the cauliflower pannacotta I once had at the Modern. Mmmm.

Cornelia Parker

IMAGE VIA FLICKR 

If I go to a museum, and one piece stays with me, I consider the visit a success. This happened last Thursday when J and I popped into the Tate Modern and saw "Thirty Pieces of Silver" by Cornelia Parker for the first time. 

I believe the piece speaks for itself, but there was something about steamrolling giant quantities of abandoned (but presumably once highly prized) family silver that felt novel, even subversive. And then the act of suspending these pieces from the ceiling - barely touching the ground, these flattened family heirlooms appeared to be floating - created an illusion, and an installation, that was also truly pleasing to the eye.

Just Sharing

Because isn't that what blogs are for?

Nice FT article that sums up some of my sentiments about, as well as providing decent advice for, being an expat. 

I know everyone in NY has seen it, but this NYT blog post made me smile while it was still dark out this morning. A rarity indeed. (Some of the older posts are treasures, too.)

And now that you've seen "I LEGO NY," I shouldn't even bother, but I did post some pictures on fb the other day to prove that I've actually been up to something since I arrived here. Enjoy.

London vs. NY vs. . . . Brussels?

The relative merits of London vs. New York have been the subject of endless debate (e.g., here). But heading to London this past weekend, I was curious to see how the city would feel - coming from Brussels rather than New York. Survey says: it feels like America. Big time. Yes, the English are still English - pouring out of pubs despite looming snowfall. Whilst in the suburbs, we even saw a typical (aka clearly bombed) English lass squeezing herself into her car, cigarette hanging from mouth, wearing nothing but a tank top, despite the freezing temperature. Some of these people put Britney Spears to shame!

My point is - London feels a lot like New York, especially coming from Brussels. Let me count the ways:

It is fashionable. Some people think NY is more so than London and vice versa, but the point is really that they both are. Belgium, particularly Antwerp, may be the seat of great design, but a lot of people here look like a prototype out of a Medieval hamlet, pre-mass-distributed self-care regimens. (Which is probably also why the gym is strange here.)

People speak English. I realize this is completely self-evident. And that some would argue they don't really speak the same language (see cockney rhyming slang). Don't get me wrong, I love learning and speaking French. But it was also really nice to be somewhere where making (or receiving) small talk was effortless, and where I could walk into any store and buy what I needed without playing charades with the shopkeeper.         

Real estate is crap. Finally, an area in which Brussels outshines its rivals. Despite supposedly falling rents in New York, we do not miss you, New York apartments. Not from our architect-renovated floor-through in a Bruxellois maison de maître. (It's true that we had fleas. And the weather outside is usually the same color as our smoky chic interior. But still.)

It is multi-ethnic. Walking around London, what struck me the most was that I was not surrounded by the repetitive cross-breeding of the members of one, maybe two tribes. No, London is teeming with the sights and sounds of multi-ethnic, multi-racial existence! Just like New York. Which makes me feel right at home. 

People are sometimes quite obnoxious. You know the sayings, the myth making: multiple variations on the "If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere" theme. London has the same spirit, to a degree, resulting in part from the collection of a great number of people who are really good at what they do. The global financial crisis has moderated the narcissisistic tendencies of both cities, but only to a degree. There remain an outsize number of large personalities - and personality disorders, too. (Witness DABA, an absurd showing of Wall Street widow self-promotion and book deal grabbing. She could only have been born in New York, but would consider moving to London). On the other hand, almost everyone I've met in Brussels is modest and nice - even if they are quite reserved or shy (without a doubt, traits non grata for the NY-London set).

Antwerp

On a recent Saturday, J and I headed to Antwerp for a leisurely lunch and some sale shopping. (In Belgium, by law, sales are allowed to take place only in the months of January and July.) I had not visited Antwerp since childhood, when I  briefly attended Antwerp International School. I was eager to go back and check out how the city had changed. And at a mere 35 minutes from Gare du Midi for only 7€ RT pp, I knew the journey there would be quick, cheap, and pleasant.

I found Antwerp changed, and impressively so. Throughout town, one finds the omnipresent footprint of the Antwerp 6, as well as a number of spectacular new buildings and cleverly repurposed old structures. And, especially compared to Brussels, the town is exceptionally clean - which I found to be a welcome surprise. Based on Antwerp's appearance alone, it isn't too hard to believe the Flamands are the flourishing half of this country.

After slogging through soft (but unrelenting) rain, J and I settled in at Tabl'eau, a cozy little restaurant near the Schelde. Excited to use the remnants of my Dutch, which has gotten pretty rusty after years of disuse, I ordered 2 glasses of warm kriek. The waitress looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. Turned out it wasn't my Dutch, but rather that warm kriek is not typically served as a beverage. Instead, it was offered here as "coupe warm kriek," or ice cream with warm kriek. (This despite the Bulletin reporting that warm kriek had become the toast of the Brussels Christmas market, after vendors had run out of vin chaud.) I also ordered tongrolletjes, which I felt fairly certain would be (beef) tongue rolls (non-adventurous eaters, keep your comments to yourselves). I was therefore slightly surprised when I ended up with pinwheels of sole, which also turned out to be rather tasty, if not meaty. J ordered salmon risotto and enjoyed his meal without incident.

Steven Seagal, In Synchrony

As of right now, not one, but two Steven Seagal movies are crowding the Belgian TV airwaves. Wow. (Do you think this might be because Seagal is the closest thing to Jean-Claude van Damme's arch nemesis?)

PHOTO VIA WWW.HEAVEN-EARTH.COM

On Bedrest, Pondering Race Relations

I am writing this post with my head cocked to the left, and with considerable distance between how high my left and right shoulders reach. For the first time in my life, I am seriously craving the services of a neck brace. While I'm not a medical doctor, I'm fairly certain I'm suffering from a pinched nerve. How did this happen?

Well, the answer is I'm not sure. I imagine it has something to do with sleeping on my back wrong, and maybe even being so elated during the Obama inauguration that, while weeping like a baby, I moved my head/back in a wonky way. (Just to pile on with the masses - how awesome was that speech? I didn't really think feeling inspired and moved by a politician was available to those born after JFK. And please, don't even mention Reagan.)

But as far as explanations for my pinched nerve go, I keep going back to a yoga class I recently attended in which the instructor doled out very forceful adjustments, alongside (unintentionally?) racist remarks. And it just might be due to the trauma sustained in this class that I now find myself in a state akin to Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot.

Let me explain. As in any group fitness class in Brussels, students in this class consisted of both local, French-speaking Bruxellois, as well as a sprinkling of foreigners. In this particular class, the instructor wasted no time singling out the étrangers: a Tunisian woman, a Brazilian man, a Chinese man, and me. His way of pointing out our otherness - which I realize may not have been his intention - was to pay us more attention. He wanted to know our names - mainly that of the Tunisian woman and me, as he already knew Paolo, the Brazilian, and Mr. Wong, the Chinese guy (who, for some reason, was the only student he referred to by his last name, à la Mr. Miyagi). Tempted to tell him my name was Suzy Wong, I settled for my real moniker.

But he wouldn't let things rest there. What language did I speak? English. Where was I from? The United States. No, no, that couldn't possibly be right, where was I really from? The United States. (J volunteered later that, in the future, I should just say Texas.) But you are really from China, no? Yes, my parents are. (Normally I am not a stickler on this issue, but come on. I was annoyed. And born in the United States!) All of this while we were supposedly in a calm and centered yoga class! After this exchange, he left me alone for a while, so he could go bug the Tunisian woman. He kept botching her name to the point of slaughter, replacing it with more commonly known Muslim men's names. Then he would go pester the Brazilian guy, announcing to the class that he was "traveling to Latin America."

Before long, he was "traveling back to Asia." (Mr. Wong's mat happened to be placed directly behind mine.) I think I was taking all of this in stride until he addressed Mr. Wong and me, collectively - because we're together, didn't you know? - in what could only be understood as very bad Chinese. I say this, because it sounded a lot like "Ching Chang Chong." Hilarious! Noting the look of disbelief on my face, he decided to clarify and asked me - heretofore established as an English speaker only, mind you - "How do you say 90 degrees in Chinese?" Since I was momentarily rendered deaf mute, Mr. Wong answered for me: "Jio shi du." (Which, of course, sounds nothing like Ching chang chong.) To which, with an insult comic dog's impeccable timing, the instructor replied, to the class, "Mais moi je ne peux pas parler chinois!" (But I can't speak Chinese!) To which, the Bruxellois crowd, on cue, responded by bursting out in roaring laughter.

Perhaps you can now appreciate how I might have acquired a pinched nerve. But the point is that, to me, incidents like this prove that the United States is light years ahead in terms of dealing with race relations. Rather than being purposefully offensive, this yoga instructor simply could not conceive of the fact that someone who is not Caucasian could actually be American - just as the Turkish and Moroccan immigrant populations, despite being here for more than a generation, are seldom considered Belgian. Hopefully our new President will be one of the forces that will help change such attitudes. Watching the beautiful, multi-ethnic extended Obama family sitting behind him at Inauguration, it was hard to imagine he won't.

Chez Oki

One thing that has not failed us since arriving here is the food. Time and again, J and I have felt ourselves soothed by a meal, a snack, a galette at the market. This seems particularly likely to happen when we're questioning the soundness and well-thought-out-ness (both questionable) of our move, lending a completely new perspective on the concept of "comfort eating." Ok, make that bingeing.

Last weekend proved no exception. To celebrate/mitigate the misery of our return, we headed to Chez Oki. It was fantastic. Halfway into the first course, J and I were frantically trying to figure out how to trade up to 5 from the 4-course menu surprise we had selected. But we had no luck flagging down the waiter, so we just decided to come back another time.

Among the offerings: Oki's signature foie gras maki, tuna tartare laid on a bed of 2 decidely French sauces (and it worked), a perfectly prepared steak enclosed in panko breadcrumbs. My lackluster descriptions notwithstanding, this is the kind of food that could restore fusion's kind-of-tacky reputation. (After all, what could possibly go wrong when you combine good French and Japanese cooking?) I also enjoyed witnessing chef Oki (?) deftly evade a demanding patron's request to be told what exactly would constitute the menu: "Madame, that is why it is called a menu surprise."

I'm not very good at taking pictures at restaurants (one reason I will never be a successful blogger), mainly because I forget to before tucking in. Luckily, the ones on their site are illustrative, as well as this little Zen one swiped from Be My Guest.  

In Pursuit of Milk

IMAGE VIA DISCOVERY EDUCATION

We've been back in Brussels for a little less than a week, and I will freely admit I might be losing it a bit. Granted, the jet lag doesn't help (or the excellent selection of movies offered by British Airways - thanks to The Duchess and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2, I did not sleep a wink), which is then exacerbated by the teensy portions of daylight offered by Lady Bruxelles this time of year. (Nothing like waking up at 8AM and thinking it's about half past three.)

But what baffles me the most is how some of the seemingly easiest tasks can prove quite complicated here (in all fairness, the reverse is also true - see, for instance, Health Care). For instance, on Monday, I set out to purchase, among other things, some milk.  But milk was nowhere to be found. The guy who sells it at the market (in unwieldy but eco-friendly glass bottles) was MIA. So were all of the half-full milk bottles at the small GB Contact where I stopped on the way home.

This is the point at which I have to digress and discuss two particular dichotomies (I told you I was losing it). First, full (lait entier or volle melk) vs. half-full (demi-écrémé or halfvolle) milk. (I realize this is leaving out karnemelk altogether, but that's a whole other story - mainly of milk that tastes spoiled.) In the U.S., one has the choice between full (I think), 2%, 1%, and skim milk, as well as some illegal unpasteurized varieties. I suppose that means we're spoiled. Here, I am perfectly happy to opt for half-full, except it is quite frequently sold out. Which is annoying. So when that happened the other day, I decided not to go for the full milk (or for the frighteningly non-refrigerated, ultrapasteurized version), but to try my luck at the larger supermarket. Which brings me to my next dichotomy - that of the small and large urban Bruxellois supermarket.

Again, this is somewhat of a false dichotomy, since, categorically, there exist more than just small and large supermarkets in Belgium. There are also some bodegas (but don't go there for milk). But, outside of the market, my supermarket shopping happens either in a smaller City Delhaize or GB Express, or in a larger Carrefour or Delhaize. The difference is significant - the selection in the larger supermarkets is pretty incredible, whereas the smaller markets are pricier, with more luck-of-the-draw offerings. One large Delhaize (Molière) even had a self-scanning system, with which I of course fell in love. The only problem is that the larger supermarkets are located considerably further away from my apartment, and a trip to one of them virtually guarantees some neck and shoulder pain. (This has led me to consider prematurely buying one of those granny wheely-carts, but I'll save that discussion for another day). However, most of the time one will find what one requires at one of the larger chains.

You can imagine, therefore, my surprise, when I hoofed it all the way to Delhaize Flagey (which apparently was the first "large, American-style" supermarket in Brussels) the other day and found nary a bottle of milk (full or half-full!) in sight. I really wanted to cry. Instead, I gave in and bought the überpasteurized kind. And, in the end, have found it to taste not so bad in coffee.

BRU-Bound

In case you were wondering, BfB has been on an extended State-side holiday. We've been here for a few weeks now, first in (what felt like) the bombed-out hollows of post-Lehman, post-Madoff New York, then in Houston, where J opportunistically caught the first Rice Bowl game in about 50 years, and now in Boston's wintry mix. Back in Brussels (still a beginner, hoping to advance to intermediate) later this week . . .