Bruegels and Luxe

Oct. 8-11

Tuesday we went to see the Royal Museums of Art. We also discovered the secret of the mystery street that’s closed to traffic.

Monday, on our way back from the Grote Markt, a police car was parked at the foot of that street, and the sight of two policemen with rifles convinced us that they didn’t want us to go that way. So we detoured around the block instead.

The way to the museum begins with the same route that we took to get to the Manneken Pis. The only difference is you don’t turn at the church, but keep going straight.

There were no armed guards on the mystery street Tuesday morning, so we decided to take a look. At the foot of the hill, just before the intersection, a modest wooden door has an even more modest brass plaque identifying the building as as an Israeli government office. 

Around the corner is a landmark synagogue. Both buildings are protected by bollards at the curb to keep vehicles crashing over the sidewalk.

The armed cops and soldiers could be standard operating procedure. The Islamic State claimed responsibility for several bombings in Brussels in 2016.

The Royal Museums of Fine Arts are a complex of museums, including one devoted to Magritte and another to Fin de Siecle and modern art. We focused on the Old Masters. 

There was a special emphasis on the Bruegels, particularly Pieter the Elder.

We watched a few short films about paintings on display. They analyzed Bruegel’s crowd scenes and focused on details that we might have missed otherwise.

Bruegel fills his peasant scenes with people, and as in the real world, they are intent on the business of living and pay little mind, if any at all, to what’s going on around them. The paintings are comments, often humorous, on human nature.

“The Census at Bethlehem,” for instance, has people crowding the inn to be counted and pay their taxes. Other people elsewhere are coming and going about their daily chores.

None of them seems to notice the central figures—the Virgin Mary on a donkey led by a man whom you see only from the back. He carries a saw on his shoulder to identify him as Joseph the carpenter. 

There is a figure in the middle of the village that I couldn’t make out, but the film narrator said it is a leper with a clapper. Behind his house you see someone stealing vegetables from his garden.

It’s a snowy time in Bethlehem, reflecting the cold winters in Western Europe at the time. The frozen river is gray-blue.

The room with the Bruegel paintings had two versions of “The Census,” painted almost 50 years apart. The later one is almost identical with the earlier. The chief difference is that the river has an almost warm gold tint. It was made by Pieter the Younger, who often painted copies of his father’s works.

Even wilder is one painting of a celebration in a town. A chain dance swirling through the street has become so energetic that the last lady in line can’t keep her dress down over her bare buttocks. Or maybe doesn’t want to. 

Not far away there is a man with his back to the crowd. He is preoccupied with pissing against a wall.

It was a lovely afternoon, perhaps our best in Brussels. We strolled through several galleries of Renaissance and Medieval work. 

It was colorful. Many of the faces looking back at us were striking.

One of them, a Madonna and Child by a painter named Quinten Metsys, dates back to the late 15th or early 16th century. We were both struck by how lifelike Mary’s face is.

We got thrown out at five.

It was raining again on Wednesday morning. We made our coffee and groceries run all right, but stayed in for the rest of the morning.

When the weather cleared in the afternoon we went for a walk in a new direction. 

Not far from the hotel we came across a line of restaurants, including one called Le Trappiste. 

It was too early for dinner, so we stopped for a glass of wine and a cup of hot chocolate. They served a couple of chocolate truffles that were perfect with the house red. 

When we went out for dinner, it was rush hour. Almost comically so. The streets in every direction looked like the approach to the Lincoln Tunnel. Drivers here, too, express their road rage by pointlessly leaning on the horn. 

There was an ambulance with its siren blasting but stuck in traffic. The cars in front of it couldn’t get out of the way because the pedestrians wouldn’t stop for them.

I thought the only place where crossing the street is more important than saving a life was New York. Guess not.

I’m glad we went back to enjoy the Art Nouveau atmosphere of Le Trappiste because it gave me the chance to eat some of the best lamb chops ever. There were four little ribs that came with green beans and a starch I couldn’t identify.

The brown gravy was savory and perfect with everything on the plate. I’m not a big fan of haricots verts, but with that gravy even they were terrific.

The starch was a bit doughy. It may have been a kind of potato pancake. It had a thin layer of cheese melted on top.

Thursday was moving day. We had yogurt and grapes in the refrigerator. We made coffee in the machine in the closet, and were out of the hotel before 11.

A man from the lobby got a cab for us and it was a short run to Brussels Midi station instead of Brussels Centraal. Not all trains from Brussels run direct to Schiphol, and we wanted to avoid changing trains with our bags.

The train we took out of Schiphol for Delft on the 16th was headed for Midi. So we knew we could get a direct train back the other way from Midi station.

It was about a two-hour ride on the TGV.

We were joking about the food in Amsterdam. A guy across the aisle from us asked if we were joking. He hoped so. He was on his way there as a food tourist.

Food’s a big thing for him. He grew up in Italy near Naples and then went to school in Florence. He remembers huge meals with the extended family.

Judging by his description of things, his mother spent most of her life cooking.

He lives in Connecticut now, where he is a school teacher.

I tried to tell him about a couple of places that are fun in Amsterdam. The Indonesian food is good. So are a couple of the restaurants in Chinatown. 

I couldn’t remember exactly where it is, but I told him about the pancake house overlooking the canal. 

The beer in Amsterdam is generally terrific, especially at the Arendsnest. 

The cannabis can help the food taste better too. 

He wasn’t actually on his own. He had hired on to a food tour with a guide. I hope that works out for him.

We got to the Sheraton hotel at Schiphol around two, I guess. It’s a very swanky place, maybe a bit more deluxe than is good for me. Certainly more luxe than I’m used to.

Maybe to help keep our feet on the ground, we skipped the hotel restaurant. 

We wound up having a couple of good hamburgers at a place called Cafe Rembrandt in the rail station. We had them with a few glasses of Palm on draft. 

Joanna loved the ale. Drank at least half a glass on her own. You know what I say: the lady doesn’t drink; she just hangs out with me because I’m a bad influence.

We had a five o’clock wake-up call Friday morning, so we shut down early.

The flight was able to leave a few minutes early. It was scheduled for 9:15, but everybody was on board and ready to go. 

We touched down at Newark a little before 11 a.m. local time.

Right now I’m taking it easy at a Ramada Inn in Parsippany, N.J.

Be well, all.

Harry

Peeing Tom

Oct. 5-7

We’ve been walking in Brussels for a few days now. The city has a touch of the flavor of Paris—but it’s not Paris. It has been pleasant enough to see the place, but next time we’ll go for the real thing.

Our trip here began with a bit of adventure. We asked the lady at the hotel in Liege to phone for a cab to take us to the train station. 

When she did, we all got a surprise. There was a problem at the train station and no cabs to be had.

Undaunted, this tiny little lady who walks with her hands folded, announced that she would take us to the station in her car. She called out to the housekeeper to tell her what was up, and we were off.

I didn’t know what to do. What was proper, that is. I offered to pay her the taxi fare. But no, she was having none of that. She just gave us hugs and kisses and wished us bon voyage.

We found that the electric lines were down on the route to Germany so service in that direction was suspended. The taxis were being taken as soon as they showed up outside the station. I presume by people changing plans. 

I was glad we weren’t due in Aachen today.

Our train, headed for Ostende by way of Brussels, was running. There was a train parked on the platform when we got there, but it wasn’t boarding. We were early, so I assumed it was ours, due to leave at noon.

Then I happened to see a sign on the next platform that seemed to be for our train. I asked one of the conductors standing by the parked train. His was a train bound for Cologne that was waiting for service to resume.

If the station announced the track change for our train, we didn’t hear it.

We were traveling on a Saturday, and the train was packed. Even the vestibules were crowded.

There were ten or a dozen young women wearing unicorn horns and ears in the center of the car. One of them was wearing an inflatable costume to look like she was riding a cartoon unicorn.

I have no idea what it was about. There was some face painting involved and some walking up and down the aisle of the coach. But it seems a good time was being had by all.

It’s less than an hour from Liege to Brussels and some passengers, including the guy with the bicycle, were getting off at stops in between. So it wasn’t bad.

Our hotel is The Hotel, the tallest building in the neighborhood. Our room is on the fifth floor (American sixth) and we look out over rooftops. It has—I dunno—between 25 and 150 floors in all.

It’s in a high-rent district, too, on Waterloo Boulevard. The shops are devoted to brands like Prada, Armani, and Bulgari. 

There is a line that forms outside the Louis Vuitton store. I asked why people were standing outside. 

Only a limited number of customers are admitted to the store at one time. According to one lady, that makes it more comfortable for clients.

Google Maps are failing me here. I found a restaurant that looked promising for dinner, but when I tried to follow Google’s instructions to get there, I couldn’t find the street, let alone the place.

That was no matter. We walked down a side alley closed to traffic and full of awnings, where we found La Vigne. 

Joanna had a vat of mussels, done in a garlic and cream sauce. I helped her with a few of them, and they were very tasty.

The foie gras, on the other hand, was too exotic for me to pass up.

I can’t remember, but must have tried it before, somewhere, sometime. I couldn’t remember how to eat it. I started to put it on bread when the toast arrived.

The combination of the savory meat paste and the sweet onion marmalade was terrific. It was just a small brick on the plate like faded Spam. It was mostly made of fat so it was very filling.

We shared the house red.

We had gotten there just in time. They close at three and don’t open for dinner till six. 

Most of the better restaurants here do that. I’ve encountered that in other European cities, but here it’s damned near universal. 

We have found a few places with continuous service, so we aren’t condemned to eat at every chef’s convenience.

We took a detour on the way back to The Hotel. Our neighborhood is on top of a hill that overlooks much of the city. There is a square with a Ferris wheel called The View near the edge of the hill. 

The Palais de Justice is also there. The Palais is probably impressive. It has a dome with gilt highlights that almost rivals Les Invalides in Paris.

But right now it is shrouded in scaffolding, and there’s graffiti on some of the lower walls.

The plaza is ringed by several military monuments. One is dedicated to the people of Britain for their sacrifice in Belgium during the First World War. There is a Belgian World War monument and another to “the glory of the Belgian infantry.”

That lunch stayed with us for the rest of the day. We went out for a snack later and stopped at another place in the same alley, News Cafe, which has continuous service.

We decided to take dessert. We shared a crepe and the house red.

Sunday we got up late. We decided that $60 for the hotel buffet breakfast was a bit overmuch, so we struck out in the same direction as the day before in search of a reasonable alternative.

Just up the street from the alley there’s a traffic circle with a Carrefour Express, where we bought fruit and yogurt, and a bakery named Paul, with excellent coffee and pastry.

We’ve been going there every morning since.

It was still raining off and on, and the wind was kicking up besides, making the outdoors a little too brisk for long walks and exploration. So we hid much of the day from the weather.

Late in the afternoon, the weather almost cleared and we went back to restaurant alley to another place we had marked the day before. Al Piccolo Mondo serves fancy Italian, but it was closed till six.

We didn’t want to wait two hours to eat and remembered that News Cafe, right across the street, has continuous service.

Joanna was able to get some decent lamb chops, savory and fairly tender. I wanted to try entrecote, which on this and other menus is translated as “Irish prime rib.” I don’t think of the Irish as cattle raisers, or big beef eaters, so I was curious to see what was Irish about it.

I said rouge in the center, and even though it was a very thin cut, it arrived plenty pink enough. But it was easily the toughest prime rib I have ever bitten. 

It didn’t taste bad, but it was hard work to chew and riddled with gristle that I couldn’t eat at all.

I think the bottle of Cotes du Rhone was the best part of the meal.

Monday dried up enough to let us get out to see some of the sights.

We wanted to see the big square with the famous little peeing boy. Google told us (correctly) that it’s close to Le Grand Place, which is the site of the city hall.

I started following Google instructions and quickly came to a dead end. It wasn’t too far to walk back to the hotel, where we asked the concierge for a map and directions.

My Google instructions were entirely backwards. 

Once we were on the right way, things got interesting. We met several soldiers on patrol with rifles. We walked down another side street that was closed to traffic. 

We passed a landmark church, Notre Dame du Sablon. I learned later that Sablon is the name of this area of town.

Shops and bars line the plaza downhill from the church. 

We crossed a narrow street clogged with tourists. That might be interesting. Let’s take a look on our way back. 

We went a block farther and I checked the map. We had gone too far. That was the street where we needed to turn, Rue de l’Etuve.

But there was no sign of a large square or a great fountain. But it was clear that we were getting close. Every second store seemed to be a souvenir shop, all selling identical junk, including paperweights and dish towels with images of the Manneken Pis.

The fountain isn’t in a square at all. It is in an alcove at the corner to two small streets, diagonally across from a dive called Manneken Pis, which may be the most appropriate name ever for a beer bar. 

I enjoyed the bar more than the statue. I had a Palm on draft.

The fountain is also next to the Manneken Pis chocolate store.

The whole thing is much smaller than photos had led me to expect. 

People crowd around it, taking selfies or photos of each other. As with the Infant of Prague or the Emerald Buddha in Bangkok, I expected it to be bigger. 

What people see now is a late replica, installed in the 1960s in place of the original, which was put here in the early 1600s.

The Grand Place, up Rue de l’Etuve in the other direction, is pretty impressive. It’s a rectangle surrounded by 17th century buildings decorated with statuary and Latin inscriptions. Several facades are trimmed in gold.

I have a feeling that some of the statues and mottos are of later date. Many celebrate republican virtues. It seems highly unlikely that the Dukes of Brabant would heartily embrace those sentiments.

The square is only a few hundred meters from the Manneken.

On the way, Rue de l’Etuve becomes Rue de Charles Buls. Or Karel Bulsstraat, in Dutch.

A short colonnade covers a monument to Everard t’Serclaes, who in the 1350s led a surprise attack that drove out the Count of Flanders who had captured Brussels.

The monument was put up on the 19th century. Several parts, principally Everard’s arms and knees are still bright and shiny because people rub them for good luck. 

We had better timing later at Al Piccolo Mondo. We arrived at 5:45. There’s a comical rigidity about some of these customs. 

They sat us at a table, but no one came even to take a drink order till six.

Joanna had a nice spaghetti alla vongole. It could have used a little more flavor. But then, you can’t judge by me; I consider oregano a vegetable 

I was in the mood for veal. All they had was organ meat. I went for the kidney instead of the liver.

The rognon de veau with bearnaise was a bit chewy but interesting enough. It definitely needed salt.

The house red was very good. Joanna went through nearly a glassful by herself.

Overall, the meal was OK, but the dishes were not distinguished enough to justify the price, which was nearly 50 bucks for the two dishes alone. 

This is getting overlong. 

I’ll recap our trip to see the Bruegels in a later wrapup in a few days.

We’re on a train right now (Thursday) for Schiphol where we have an early flight tomorrow morning to Newark.

Stay well, everyone. And remember the little peeing guy: Size doesn't matter.

Harry

October 10

Harry: That was better than when my wife and I were in Rome in 1973 and there was a real Peeking Tom looking into the communal bathtub.

I threatened him to an inch of his life. Only time I was a real tough guy!

Best to you two.

October 12

Fantastic story. Can I include it when I publish my material on the blog?

October 12

Just change the names to protect the innocent! (Remember “Dragnet”?)

Quiet (Albeit Wet) Days in Liege

Oct. 2-4

It’s a short train ride from Aachen to Liege. Good thing, too, because the train was packed and we had to stand.

We got to the Eurotel easily enough and were met at the door by a white-haired lady in high heels. The building may have always been a hotel. Or it may have been a townhouse converted long ago. 

In any event, it is full of small rooms. Ours has an entry foyer and an irregular footprint with one round wall. There’s an alcove in one corner that holds a small desk.

An old fireplace, long sealed up, has a marble mantelpiece. 

It’s really quite an eccentric place.

It has a tiny elevator, smaller even than the one we had in Delft. In this one, too, you have to keep pressing the button for your floor till the car stops by itself.

The most unusual thing, though, is that we have found no place to eat or drink in the neighborhood. In better weather that wouldn’t be a problem, but it has been drizzling, pouring, or windy off and on since we left Delft.

We were hungry when we arrived, so I did a Google search. The closest option is  La Captainerie, almost half a mile away. You have to walk a few blocks to the bridge named for King Albert I and cross the Meuse to the yacht club. 

But it’s open three hours for lunch and then four for dinner. It was closed by the time we got to the hotel, and we were too hungry to wait almost four hours till it opened at 6.

So we hiked about a mile to a steakhouse, La Cafetaria, that has continuous service. 

We were going through the historic old town, so we enjoyed the walk.

This seems to be fair season in the Low Countries. When we were in Delft, the central market square was taken over by kiddie rides and games. 

There is an even bigger gathering in Liege.

For much of the way one side of the road was occupied by some kind of carnival, probably a temporary set-up in a park. There’s a substantial Ferris wheel and a full-size Wild Mouse, as well as what appears to be an extensive array of midway games and attractions, all in trailers.

The map shows that somewhere along that stretch is a statue of Charlemagne. We didn’t see that, probably because it was obscured by the carnival.

We found La Cafetaria easy enough. It’s on a street closed to traffic and packed with restaurants and shops. We did a survey of menus and found that the place next door, Brasilia, looked even more interesting.

When I first saw the name, I expected the wood-fired barbecue and the tangy chimichurri sauce that I had years ago in Buenos Aires. But no. Brasilia was serving escargot bourguignon. 

The was enough to draw me in. Joanna went along.

I didn’t want beer, even Belgian ale, with the snails, so I ordered a glass of the house red wine. What is it? 

I expected Malbec, an Argentinian staple. 

But no again. It was Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.  

We shared the snails and then finished with omelets. Joanna’s was plain. Mine was called a la Provencale. It was made with tomato, celery, and onion, much like the Spanish omelet at a Jersey diner.

It was excellent with the wine, though. Actually, I think corn flakes would be good with that wine.

Brasilia was well worth the walk.

One of the attractions in Liege is St. Paul’s Cathedral. After Ghent and Aachen, we’ve been pretty much cathedraled out, but even so, we decided to go in that direction on Thursday.

We walked through some interesting commercial streets, many of them closed to automobiles.

We almost missed the church, though. Right now, it’s covered with screens and scaffolding for a major restoration.

I have no excuse really. When two nuns walked down the alley, that should have told me which way to go.

The interior has some large oil paintings and several interesting marble statues. 

One is an angel with bat-like wings and a shackle around one ankle. One hand holds a small crown. The figure is hunkered under the overhang at the rear of the pulpit. 

Could it represent Satan after the fall? I don’t know because there was nothing in sight to give me a clue.

We stopped for lunch at Fu Xin, which advertises authentic Chinese dishes. We had noodles sauteed with a medley of proteins: chicken, beef, shrimp, and squid.

Then we decamped to a place down the street for dessert.

We were waited on by a tall, young counterman with a short beard. We were there for maybe 20 minutes, half hour tops, and at least two young women stopped in just to chat with him.

We shared another wonderful Belgian waffle and a crepe. 

We walked around the area, and came into the section of town where Brasilia is. There is also a shoe repair shop in an arcade on the street.

The sole of Joanna’s shoe was pulling away, so we waited while the shop glued it and stitched both soles.

We were chatting in pigeon French and pigeon English. One of the shoe men greeted Joanna: “Nie hao.”

He not only has heard of New Jersey; he has a cousin there. 

We walked some more because Joanna’s shoes were now more comfortable than they had been for a while..

Most of the town is fairly flat, save for one curious section that towers over all. 

You can reach it by a 19th century staircase, called the Montagne de Bueren, named for somebody who beat off an attack by Charles the Bold in the 1400s. 

It’s a climb of 374 steps. According to Wikipedia, it’s No. 1 on Huffington Post’s List of Most Extreme Staircases.

And we saw people climbing it as we passed. I assume, though, that there are other, less strenuous ways to get to the top.

We also stopped at Temple Bar, named for the site on Fleet Street in London where there used to be a city gate. It’s billed as an Irish pub. I don’t know how Irish it is, but they do serve Guinness and have a dart board. 

I was surprised to see that they also have Goose Island IPA.

Goose Island’s good, but why bring even a good beer all the way from Chicago to Belgium? 

I opted for a Tripel Karmeliet, which despite the name is not an abbey ale, though it’s strong enough to be, at 8.5 percent. Its brewer says the recipe was developed at a Carmelite convent in the 17th century  

The company, Bosteels in Bruggenhout, Belgium, and Goose Island are both owned by AB InBev, the same outfit that brings us Budweiser. 

The bar was nearly empty in the middle of the afternoon, and the music way too loud for me. Of course, that encourages me to behave; one beer and I’m done.

We stayed indoors for most of Friday. The forecast warned of tropical rain, fallout from a storm called Leonardo. There was some rain, but not as much as we expected.

We took a short stroll down the block to Boverie Park. We saw some curious looking birds that I couldn’t identify and lots of horse chestnut trees. There’s also an interesting footbridge across the Meuse that seems to be very popular with walkers and joggers.

Near the river and towering over the trees is an installation called the Cybernetic Tower, a tall metal frame with whirligigs on top.

Liege has a lovely old town with plenty of narrow streets worth strolling for a couple of afternoons, but we’re ready to leave for Brussels tomorrow.

Be well, everyone. Keep your feet dry and your whistles wet.

Love to all.

Harry