Since I have been in Belgium I have not had a problem with buying things. As soon as someone has realized I only speak English they immediately switch over to accommodate. My interactions, while brief- I never want to push it past “how much?”, “that one”, or other short phrases- have not been too difficult or frustrating, but like I said I try to keep it short. While the people are nice enough to speak English for me, I can always see that twinge in their eye saying “Ah, an American who comes over here and expects us to speak his language, he should have learned some French.” Yesterday I went to the metro station to get my bus pass, but I apparently got there too late and they were out of numbers to get in line. So I left and planned on going back early the next morning. I began to think of this “twinge in the eye” and how I could avoid it. I thought maybe I could pretend to speak some other European language, like say German, or rather with a German accent. At least then I would be a fellow European and would be finding a common language that was secondary to us both. I began to picture this scenario with the saleslady I had seen at the bootik and this is what I was afraid would happen.
Saleslady: Bonjour
Me: Halo, how are you doing? (in my thickest German accent)
Saleslady: Ah, sprechen sie deutsch?
Me: (after a long awkward pause of blankly staring at her) G’day Mate!
Today I went on my first excursion into the heart of Brussels. It is an amazing city. One block is paved with old cobblestone streets and lined with homes that are centuries old, stacked one on top of the other, chimneys rising out of each one, and without a speck of daylight between them. The next block, or even the other side of the street, is paved with asphalt and lined with angular buildings all painted white with large windows and revolving doors. It is a spectacular sight indeed. I eventually made my way past the Belgian version of Le Arc De Triomph and into the center of the city, which today was filled with street vendors. I made my way around, enjoying the sights and sounds. The architecture here is really something. But the real story of the day, the real “something to write home about”, well that was food. Let me first tell of two items (masterpieces) I got from a bakery.
As soon as I pulled the first out of the bag I knew I was in for a surprise, it had looked soft and chewy, but it was crisp, without being crumbly. As I bit into this caramelized, heart shaped pastry I was immediately satisfied with my purchase. Even more than that, I was…well that one moment was worth the hours I had walked in the bitter, humid cold. If all of my walking and being cold had only produced that one moment, it would have been worth it. It was sweet and crunchy at the same time. It was not what I had expected but was better than anything I had thought it could be. I walked down the street, breaking bits of my pastry off and eating them, smiling until the last crumb. Next I pulled out the one that had appeared to be crunchy. It was a long, thinner bread with bits of chocolate in it. As I began to pull it apart I found that its golden brown crust was very thin and not crunchy at all, but soft and tasty. As I put it in my mouth, this moist, delicious morsel overwhelmed my taste buds. I had never known that bread could melt in your mouth. It was sweet, and doughy. By the time I finished both I was only a few blocks away from the bakery where I had bought them. I thought of returning for more, but I knew that part of their exquisiteness was that to me they were new, and novel. I didn’t want to ruin that by immediately returning for more to satiate my desire for their sweet, soft, crunchy deliciousness. I have always liked bread, but this…well this is something else. In the true meaning- I can literally taste them now, hours later.
A few hours later I was heading home, but couldn’t allow myself to do so until I had tried what I had heard so much about, I REAL Belgian Waffle. I had been told that what Americans eat is not what the Belgians eat, and that is true. Why we eat the version we do, I will never know. The real version, the original, has no equal. This item I picked up from what appeared to be a sort of chain waffle place. I paid my Euro and 70 cents and walked away what was to be my first of many Belgian Waffles. I think from now on I will call the other stuff "American Waffles", or maybe even just “that bland crap you call a waffle”. While our waffle is made essentially from pancake batter, Belgian Waffles are doughy, caramelized, masterpieces (have I already used that term?). The outside glistens with a golden brown crust, caked in glaze. The crust is slightly crispy and the inside is soft and doughy (yes, made of actual yeast filled dough), and tastes better than anything that has ever crossed the Atlantic.
Now perhaps you think I have overplayed, overemphasized, my point. But you are wrong. Next up is chocolate. There are literally streets lined with gourmet chocolate shops. I’ve never been a huge fan of chocolate, but who could have ever thought a Belgian Waffle could be so good.



