Great Gouda and Better Beer

June 15

My first task of the day on Saturday was to take a short stroll to Utrechtsestraat and find a cheese shop called Tromp. 

But I came across the photo of the day first. I think it’s a houseboat designed by Jules Verne. It’s tied up about a block from the hotel.

I needed to get a block of aged Gouda for dessert after dinner.

I got it on two tries. I walked past the shop the first time because I was looking at the awnings and hanging signs on storefronts for the name. “Tromp” runs vertically in pale white up the side of the front window. 

So the next time you want great cheese, you can look for that.

The place was piled high with I can’t guess how many varieties of Dutch cheese. 

The cheese plate at Brouwerij Poesiat en Kater had some aged Gouda on it. I had tasted Gouda before, but nothing like that. It was as good as any aged English Cheddar.

So I was on the hunt for aged raw-milk Gouda. Tromp had two to offer. The man offered me cubes of each one. I opted for the cow’s milk, but the goat’s milk Gouda was just as good. Bother were even better than the stuff I ate at the brewery.  

From there I walked a short stretch to meet the No. 14 tram at Rembrandtplein. I had to recharge my chip card and that was a mild adventure. 

It took my a couple of tries before I managed to guess that the card doesn’t slip into a slot, but lies flat on the surface of a small recess. I selected English for the transaction, but each time the screen changed, it went back to Dutch, and of course it’s a touch screen, not a keyboard, so it doesn’t always work. 

I started to figure it out after my first transaction ended in failure.

The second time I did all right until the machine asked me if I wanted “een bon.” A man was trying to help, but he knew about as much Dutch as I do. 

I had no idea what this thing was trying to sell me. So I chose “nee.” That much Dutch I know.

I must have waited too long, because the transaction was called off and I had to start again.

This time, the instructions came up in English all the way through. When the Dutch offer een bon, just say “ja.” It’s a receipt.

I was going to meet Larry at Brouwerij ’t IJ, a landmark bar in a windmill near the body of water known as the IJ. Dutch spelling treats the combination of “i” and
“j” as a single letter in itself. To my ear, it sounds identical to English “eye.” Or “I.” Or “Aye.”

On the tram, stops are posted on a screen as they come up. 

But Pontanusstraat, the station for ’t IJ brewery, is announced. Before it gives the official name of the station, the recording first identifies the stop in English as “the Windmill.” I gather it’s the only windmill actually in the city of Amsterdam.

The place was jammed, as usual, but we managed to find open seats at the bar. We ordered the IPA.

Next to us was a man with curtly white hair and a pair of forearm crutches. He asked what we were having. We told him, and warned him that it’s strong, bitter, and very tasty.

So he ordered one. He said he liked it.

When he had finished it, though, he decided to leave after one. He said it was strong enough that it was having an effect on him and he didn’t want to get drunk.

Most of the ales brewed by the company are excellent. The IPA is right up there. The only disappointment has been a session IPA, which I tried at another bar and found to be a little watery.

We left the windmill, crossed Oosterburggracht, and walked along it toward Larry’s place.

On the way we passed Frank’s Smoke House, where the cannabis fumes were floating out of the open door. In the doorway, just entering the place, was a man with curly white hair on two forearm crutches. 

Maybe he was going for the coffee.

(Editor’s note: Harry was mistaken about the nature of the Smoke House. Whatever the aroma was, it wasn’t cannabis. Frank’s Smoke Shop serves smoked meats.)

Larry is renting a small apartment from a friend who is out of town. It is unusual because even though it is essentially one room, it has a kitchen, with a refrigerator, a small stove, and even an oven.

Dinner was fun. We started with marinated mushrooms and some Moroccan whole wheat bread, which was leavened, and not pita. 

He had cooked up some merguez sausages and a sauce made with tomato paste and lentils that he mixed with orecchiette. All very good.

So was the red wine. But I forget what it was.

We had the Gouda for dessert with more of the Moroccan bread.

On the way back to the station, we found the Windmill closed so we went into the bar next door, the Langendijk, which promises “kick-ass beers.”

We tried a couple of short ones as a test and agreed they were pretty kick-ass.

At the end of the tram ride, I wasn’t ready to call it quits. I stopped at Bouwman, a bar on the corner of Prinsengracht and Utrechtsestraat.

This was Saturday night and the tables on the sidewalk were packed. The barroom not so much. One woman was running the whole place by herself. She was in the back; she was tossing burgers onto the griddle. She was pouring, delivering, stepping into the cellar to fetch stuff.

Smiling the whole time, too.

I stayed for three beers. It should have been two, but she served my second, which tasted remarkably good, but also remarkably like my first, a Vedett IPA. I asked, is this the De Koninck? 

It was fine with me, but she not only apologized; she drew me a De Koninck too.

Did I say before that I love this town?

Stay well, all. And don’t forget to say “cheese.” It exercises the smile muscles.

Harry