Sunday

Why, Charles Dickens Himself


Still currently waylaid in middle-Englandshire, patiently wilting like peeling wallpaper in many other purgatorial bureaucratic waiting rooms amidst other miserable grockles, I find myself reflecting on places once often frequented. Belgium, it turns out, is the most depressing country in the entire world. Navigating the pedestrian thoroughfares with their dirty, rather flavescent art deco buildings is like wading through a deeply depressing passage in the King James bible. The general population are rather remontado to say the very least. Those, astoundingly gliriform in appearance, still able to walk upright for more than a few moments, are usually to be seen wearing a grand multitude of havelocks, tricornes and a vast array of 1970's discount-store jeans. A turf of hair atop a bald wart strewn pate, mildy cynocephalous, infested with intestinal worms and the ability to grow a fully waxed 'Hercule' moustache, seems to be the norm amongst a community deprived for so long of bohemian culture. The men are just as bad. It could well be that Bob Dylan fathered many more children of the corn than was first thought during his first European tour.

Tractors and hay-bailing machines litter the sides of the main street, jostling for position between odious pumpkin sellers and dour tourists busy slurping thin turnip broth from the shells of such animals as a turtle or an armadillo. Beneath damp moss covered arches, effeminate men beckon you ever closer to sample garish baroque vaudeville tomfoolery. Oodles of drunken cypripareuniaphile Thracians, Dacians and ill-read Illyrians hawk phlegm onto the chewing gum clad pavements whilst pondering an incestuous desire for their own platyopic sisters. Elsewhere, otherwise innocent god-fearing canines fail miserably to find a clean place on which to deposit their early evening constitutional shite. Why, Charles Dickens himself would have redacted many a tale if he had been forced to tread these very steps in his quest for fine literature back in the day. What say you Mr Pip? In Belgium, it feels as though it is a wet Monday every day of the week.

Located at the dank and dire crossroads between Germanic and Latin Europe, Belgium, began life as a country with nothing. It still has most of what it started out with. It is seemingly distributed like a fly-spattered turd in the filthiness of many grubby cobbled courtyards known locally as 'flea markets'. Quite apt I thought. The national dish served daily appears to be any vegetation felled from the rear of a trotters cart, pickled in aspic, covered in porcine vomit garnished lightly with a sticky nasal bovine froth. A typical menu ominously featured baklava, sauerkraut, rotted figs and something called ajvar. Ajvar, a grim mushy looking substance, that reminded me of a babies first poo, it is served between two toasted buns and smothered in garlic butter, uncooked onions and something closely resembling a corpses teeth. I didn't fight my way to the top of the food chain only to become a vegetarian. I passed on lunch needless to say. It also passed me several times as it attempted to escape from the filthy serving tray attached to the street sellers carts.

To while away the time we found our attention drawn towards a rather lively music hall bar that seemingly resembled a bank. Unable to get close enough to the bar to buy a drink or make a withdrawal, we looked on as refugees from the cold war bumped and grunted their genitalia to the sound of a wind-driven organ while whooping and frothing in time to the off-key cries of pain from the instrument being tortured. Considering this is a country where its people still consider kiwi fruit to be exotic and sleeveless cardigans to be risque and somewhat decadent, I was somewhat taken aback to find that the hideously prostrated ladies of the night that gathered herd-like by the entrance to the grim reaper of all train stations had managed to decorate themselves with many fishnet garments. I doubt that it was fishing the ladies had in mind during the purchase, although there was a rather strange odour of mackerel that permeated the air. On endless occasions I saw associates of Looby's latest sullen house-guest peddling an endless array of home-grown plants wrapped in foil.

Unable to find food, sustenance and a bed for the night in Antwerp that did not involve holding a young lady's cigarette while she waxed lyrically about a happy ending, we moved on a few miles towards the small suburb of Walloon. There we secured fine cuisine and clean, comfortable lodgings in a rather nice setting. I was informed that Brussels is the stopping off point for many of the murderous asylum seekers from eastern Europe before they enter into Britain. That at least explained the undoubtedly batrachophagous menu and the clothing that reminded me of numerous jaded and jaculiferous old men. Anything to ease the forthcoming transition into the ambiance of downtown Manchester, eh? I managed two large portions in homage to our hosts very own recipe of Minced lamb and golden tattie pie, of which the waiter served up before me with shaking hands for some unknown reason. I had clearly not concealed a hatchet beneath my waistcoat on this occasion. I do seem to have the same effect when people first see me. However, with so many hideously deformed faces of Gargoyles that litter the city walls on constant view, I'd have thought that mine would have fitted right in. Och well...


Minced Lamb & Golden Tattie Hot-Pot

600g lean minced lamb
2 white onions, sliced
1 plump carrot
1 fresh stick of celery
1 leek
5 large Irish potatoes
wild garlic
25g melted butter
1 tbsp plain flour
350 ml of lamb or beef stock
1/2 tsp Worcestershire sauce
salt and pepper to taste

Heat a good quality oil in a large iron skillet over a medium heat. Saute the onions until soft and deep golden in colour. Remove from the skillet and set aside. Add the lamb mince and brown it in batches until rich chestnut brown in colour. 12 to 15 minutes should do. Drain the excess fat and reserve.

For the love of the blessed Mary herself, at this point do not forget to preheat the oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C) or the timing of your meal will be all to cock.

Spread half of the sliced tatties and veg in the bottom of a large metal baking dish. Season to taste. Place the browned mince and onions on top, then sprinkle with thyme and season again if required. Cover with the remaining tatties and dot with butter. Pour the stock in and add the flour, cover the mince with the liquid, add a wee drop of Guinness or brown ale, cover with foil and cook for 2 hours. Remove the foil to brown the tatties during the last half an hour.

Serve with any choice of veg apart from brussels of course, a good bottle or three of dry white wine (red if you must) followed by a decent cheese board.


54 comments:

  1. Alas, I had the misfortune of working at the local Belgian Consulate a few years back for an odious ex Belgian Congo French speaking midget.

    Five months in and his job was shoved where the sun don't shine. Immense satisfaction it gave me to see his bulbous froggie eyes straining in their sockets at the shock. Ever since then I have a distinct dislike of anything to do with the place. Particularly the risque sleeveless cardies.

    Forgive my ignorance, but who is the handsome devil on the new billboard?

    And isn't Belgium the country?

    xxx

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    1. Many Belgians are infamously that way inclined I believe. Something to do with the brackish upbringing they receive whilst at the pubescent stage. Either that or the blame lies with the comic books that are part of the national curriculum.

      That handsome divil just happens to be a Scotsman who went on the lam many decade previously, then washed up in Amerikay where he made and lost a fortune bootlegging gutrot whisky and playing cards.

      Belgium is indeed a country, a rather stupid schoolboy error on my part that has now been corrected. One should always read and edit before going straight to print. Lesson learned.

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    2. Your man in the pic, just like my ex-husband who went on the lam.

      Or so he led me to believe.

      A Glaswegian he was, although not the most trustworthy kind. Many an untruth he spewed.

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    3. All Glaswegians are not the same hen, luckily. I'm guessing that your runaway was originally from Govan, protestant and deluded enough to follow R*****s FC before they died last year.

      If I am right then you are better off without him. A rum lot the prods!

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    4. Nope, he was a Celtic man. More's the pity as I would never liken him to such a nice man as yerself.

      xxx

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    5. Och hen, you're making me blush here.

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    6. Ocht!

      Would that be red or Green?

      *Insert big round eyes*

      xxx

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    7. Green of heart hen, always green of heart!

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    8. Aye, always green of heart. Pint?

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  2. Blimey, poor 'ol Belgium! Do they not even have a decent Fish'n'Chip shop in Brussels?
    Sx

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    1. Yes they do Mistress Scribble. Fries are an acceptable part of Belgian cuisine, they feature everywhere and are quite palatable whenever you have the good fortune to glimpse a large golden 'M'. But no where else!

      I find it hard to believe that a fine lady such as yourself is so concerned with identifying the purveyors of a foreign fish supper. I saw you more as a good old fashioned British gal who would prefer to offer a gentleman caller a tidy lamb shank should ever the need arise.

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  3. For once you are spot on without going too far Cheffy. An industrial wasteland full of jumped up jobsworths and bad food. Chips, pot noodles and tins of mussel soup was what we lived on for a fortnight when we worked across there building their roads for them. Never go back I won't, not even if they begged us.

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    1. Tins of mussel soup? And you lived? The mind boggles.

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    2. Aye man, the mind boggled and me arsehole parted like a pair of theatre curtains for a whole week after.

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  4. Have you entered a French designed parallel universe intended to convince people that their jokes about Belgians have substance?

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    1. My dear lady, Belgians and substance, now those are two words seldom put together in the same sentence. Just wait until you hear my thoughts on Cambodia, Jerusalem and Singapore.

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  5. Love all mankind as if they were your brothers. No boundaries exist between a country and its love for one other. I am the door. If anyone enters by me, he will be saved and will go in and out and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. John 10:9-11

    No rhetoric, just a nice passage seeing as how you shone a light on Belgium's passages to begin with.

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    1. I am the doorman. If anyone enters it will have to be through me. And where was the shepherd when I snuck in and poached his sheep for the pot?

      No rhetoric, agreed, but you sailed awfully close to the rocks again old friend.

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  6. As for Belgian chocs? Away! :¬)

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    1. Discarded and no doubt still very dry in the box I'm assuming. No more bitter aftertaste for a while longer it would seem.

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    2. Hahahaha! Tears of laughter my friend, if only they knew?! :¬)

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    3. Some of them do pal, some of them do.

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  7. Wild garlic infused, now that's a subtle touch mate. Me personally I would have added kidneys, bacon and preferably Russet potatoes for the prep. I keep forgetting that you are an amateur when it comes to knocking up the more proper food. ; ) Haven't you forgotten the cheese by the way? Nothing beats the finished dish better than a dribbled cheddar spider webbed across from corner to corner.

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  8. Dribbled cheese and forests of parsley is it my ectomorphic friend? Well guess what? The 70's have called and they want their recipes back. As for kidneys and bacon, that would seem a wee bit on the oirish side of life for the kind of company you keep Anthony my boy?

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  9. Away and boil your heid, make sure you add soup carrots and turnip to take off the bitter taste that drips green from you. Nothing wrong with your bogtrotter grub if you know how to do it right. Nice win for your lot the day by the way. Not long till the Bears are back in our rightful position on top and you are mid table once more.

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  10. Ah now Anthony, boiling is what you do with an oul woman's wash. These days we broil, roast, steam, blanch and grill. Was it not me that introduced you to the ways of poaching a fresh salmon correctly in the water from whence it first came fae? Perhaps that soup trap beneath your nose has you confused these days?

    As for the bears... they no longer exist son. Accept it, eh?

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  11. Seeing as how you are in the neighbourhood why not pop in and buy me and Shanty a drink or two in the Domino?

    ReplyDelete
  12. Aye, why not, eh? I haven't slummed it in ages, I'm due a night out.

    ReplyDelete
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    1. Well if yer buying.....

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    2. Aye, as usual, get your coat, but for the love of god, not the spangly one this time, eh?

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  13. Trying to figure if this dish would enhance an otherwise boring Thanksgiving meal next month. I can't see any reason why it wouldn't. Tradition Schmadition...

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    1. It would suffice sir, but best serve up a bucket or two of beer just to help it along.

      Delete
  14. Do they have armadillos in Antwerp? I never would have suspected. What is Belgian cuisine, anyway? I've heard people say, "Should we go out for Italian or Chinese?" There's a nice Brazilian restaurant near my office. But I can't recall anyone ever asking, "Do you know of any good Belgian restaurants?"

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  15. Armadillos are worn around the neck in Antwerp as a sign of wealth. The bigger the armadillo, the bigger the bank balance. It has been said that some members of Belgian parliament are gold armadillo carriers, but I can neither confirm or deny this rumour as I was pretty drunk at the time of hearing the tale.

    Belgian cuisine is vegetable roadkill. Cabbages, celeriac, beetroot, great and vast fields are grown and harvested thrice yearly to meet the demands of the peasants that inhabit this strange land. In London, England, Belgian restaurants appear on nearly every street corner, where they entice hungry customers in with the enticing aroma of cherimoyas, tomatillas and husks of soiled kale.

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  16. I am confused, excuse me as I do not get the sailing connection, please clarify.

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  17. No problem Mr Pew, confusion is like fog onboard a ship. It soon lifts. Your girouettism has begun to slip. I merely reminded you politely of the fact.

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  18. I came. I read. I had nothing helpful to add so I slipped quietly back out the door. I mean, once chocolate left the conversation....... :)

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  19. I disagree hen. You add a wee ray of sunshine each time you visit here.

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  20. I was having Mackerel for ma tea! not anynmore. I don't know any Belgians, I have no idea of what they are like. Funny how I have lived so long and had dealings with most of the inhabitants of the planet but the Belgian and I have not crossed paths! I find that strange..although I wish we would have copied their youth system as it seems as those odd basatards will be playing in Rio. I have a post written about my first time at Hampden when we played them, of course that was back in the days of Dalgleish, Macari, Jordan and other brilliant players of the day. Cheers...

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  21. Nothing wrong with the smell of edible fish, unless of course it is emanating from your date. In 15th century England, the English first used fresh fish as an early kind of deodorant to keep them from stinking during their conjugal sessions in the bedrooms of the palace. This practice lasted right through until 2011, when Hewitt's boy, I can never remember his first name, found a bottle of Old Spice in an upstairs drawer and history was finally changed.

    Hold on... I must apologise here. I seem to have gotten my facts mixed up and feel as though I must apologise for being rather hasty in my assumption above.

    It wasn't Old Spice, it was in fact 'Tabac' by Mäurer & Wirtz.

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  22. I beg to differ. I have had nothing but excellent experiences of Belgian cuisine and culture.

    Consider: --some of the finest beer in the world, in hundreds of varieties (exhibit A: an oude gueuze)

    --outdoor vertical eating establishments (exhibit B: small plates of mussels in cider, serve with a chilled glass of Ardennes white)

    --one of the finest producers of house and techno music, pioneering a sound that influenced its supposedly more mature scenes in the UK and the US (exhibit C: Anathasia - T99.

    First rate performance art scene (to which I have added a couple of grains of sand over the years--I'm not saying that what I did was "First rate", just that performance art in Belgium is in rude health (Exhibit D--the programme at L'Etablissement d'en Face in Brussels).

    It does however, have the gloomiest countryside I have ever seen, to rival the flat hinterland of Carstairs.

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    1. Sir, please excuse my cachinnation in response to your comment. I will do my best to reply in full before the onset of delirium begats me.

      1. Oude Gueuze, hardly the nippitatum of which you describe. At best, a oozing gloop of lambic cider, brewed in tainted copper pipes and sucked into filthy bottles by six fingered grockles more accustomed to the divination of ditch water using the entrails of magpies and a blunt stick dipped in bovine excrement. "Belgian Champagne" is marketed in Scotland as a cure for keeping slugs from the heads of fresh virginal heads of lettuce.

      2. Vertical eating. A natural position for farm animals, wild birds and truck drivers propping up the counters of mobile 'buttie wagons' somewhere in a grimey layby near Reading. Civility in dining always begins with a fine seating arrangement rather than standing around like train travellers sipping ersatz coffee from cardboard offerings whilst completing the Times crossword puzzle.

      3. T99... poor Patrick and his penchant for appearing naked from the waist down behind the DJ booth. A terribly dinmont array of wasted musical notes that failed miserably to entertain the Cuthberts, Victorias and other assorted dysfunctional hoi-polloi from England's public schools.

      4. L'Etablissement d'en Face. Admittedly, papyrocracy threatened to overshadow much of the contents, however allodoxaphobia runs rampant up and down the bland, somewhat sparse canvas, enhancing the scopolagnia in the same way that a bluebottle brings a finishing touch to a hobo's turd.

      The countryside I quite liked.... especially the carefully crafted and handpainted road signs that count down the miles so eloquently towards the border.

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  23. I have never been to Belgium but we did once have a pleasant Belgian girl to stay.
    Driving down through France in my Spitfire one could identify the most horrific drivers as being Belgian and I believe they eat thrice fried chips.
    I have sometimes felt that both you and Maurcheen have an in- built prejudice about Belgium and those who reside there.
    Sincere thanks for not mentioning the other topic of the day.
    I wonder why you are still in England?

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    1. My dearest Patricia, I have now traced the aforementioned Belgian lady to verify the facts of your above statement. It would seem that she helped pick the hops in the vinery of your family seat in Kent back in 1923. I am told that she left with a meagre sum of 2d and a handkerchief filled with hazelnuts, for a week working in the fields. Belgian exploitation at its best it would seem.

      I was comforted to learn of your motoring experience in a Triumph Spitfire, a vehicle of which is unfortunately too wee for myself to fit, and gratified to hear that you were able to identify the Belgian motorists by their sheer inability to control any wheeled device larger than a hay cart.

      Thrice fried chips is mainly used in religious ceremonies in the new cosmopolitan areas of Belgium. The blood of Crust is in fact beetroot wine, the flesh of crust being small scallops of re-fried spuds.

      Maureen and I do not have a prejudiced bone in our bodies dear lady. I, however, am aware that you are knowledgeable of the crux of our disdain in that area. No flies on you dear lady, eh?

      As for other topics of the day, I must admit to being somewhat in the dark as to what they may be.

      I also wonder why I am made to continue to linger so long in England.

      Delete
  24. Not wishing to be forward here, but how dare you chastise me for leaving insulting comments when you print above what could be perceived as treason?

    You should be proud to be British, if not English. I believe the comment should be retracted out of respect for the monarchy if not for any other reason..

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    1. LMAO!! what a cheeky wee bawbag.

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    2. If it wasn't for the fact that you have the facts entirely incorrect in your assumption of my nationality, I would have applauded you for your integrity. But you didn't, so I will not.

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    3. Oh, by the way Anthony, please refrain from using nomenclature such as LMAO. This is not the book of faces, we are thinkers on this side and therefore have an IQ above a newts arsehole.

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  25. All day I have waited for a response from the big man over your comments pewfodder and I am disapointed that he yet to reply. Let me clear something up for you while I wait. Me, being Scottish and cheerfully protestant and a supporter of both Rangers FC and therefore the monarchy can be classed as British. James on the other hand being born and lived in the Republic of Ireland to catholic parents and supporting Celtic FC who are mostly Irish and mostly catholic cannot therefore be calling himself British. Northern Ireland comes under British rule but the Republic of Ireland is a seperate country and has its own parliment. If you are Irish which he is then he cannot be British. Any idiot with a grain of common sense can identify the many clues in this blog as to which side of the field cheffie plays on.

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    1. Hmmm... I would normally be wary of any man who claims to lay in wait for me. They normally fall into two categories. 1. They wish to do me harm with a blunt object or loaded weapon of their own choice. 2. They are attracted to my rugged masculine sexuality and therefore still wish to do me harm with a blunt and loaded weapon to hand.

      Normally I would not allow publication of any 7 letter word that beings with an R and ends in administration. However, you meant well so I will let this one slide. Your intoxication level appears to have been quite high at the time of commenting.

      Delete
  26. The other topic was boring old Halloween. Yes I know I used a Halloween video but it was a day late and anything that makes me laugh nowadays can pass Go and collect £200.

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  27. Ah, Halloween. Glasgow being the only city in the world where the inhabitants do not require hideous masks to scare kids.

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  28. Ah, but no one does a Ragman's ball quite like the fellas in Limerick.

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