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 . . .