[title type="h5"]Thursday, April 17, 2014.
In Search Of Extinct Mussels. Lost In Ghent, Again. Missing Antwerp.
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The dinner we had last night on the Ghent waterfront was a reminder of our first visit there twenty-five years ago. We dined just as well but much more simply then. The restaurant--whose name I can't recall--was a big room with long tables inside the old main municipal hall. I ate only one dish: a bucket of mussels in white wine and cream sauce. It was at least five dozen of the black-shelled bivalves, for which we paid fourteen dollars (no Euro yet).
That repast began my love affair with mussels, which in those days were rarely seen in New Orleans. It also established the benchmark for how good fresh-cut pommes frites could be. Mary Ann ate nothing but the fries, of course, which explains why I remember the meal more vividly than she does.
Back to today, whose agenda includes finding that restaurant again, and having another feast of mussels and Belgian fries. Alas, everyone we asked about the restaurant either remembered it only dimly or not at all. Several stories had it that the restaurant was very old, and had gone out of business long ago. Which was certainly possible, since we were last here in 1989.
My other glowing mental photo of Ghent shows its many large, ancient churches. St. Bavo's--named for a highly-regarded Ghent bishop of the 600s--is the most impressive church either of us had seen until we got to Rome many years later. In excellent condition then and now, its finest features are the dozen or so chapels that filled a semicircle around and in back of the main altar. No two chapels are alike. Each was made possible by a wealthy patron, of which Ghent had many in those days. And each tried to outdo its neighbors.
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St. Bavo's in Ghent.[/caption]Mary Ann didn't remember St. Bavo as well as I do. But she had an interest in the place, as the home of one of the major pieces of artwork featured in the movie "Monuments Men." We saw that a month ago, purely by chance. "The Adoration Of The Lamb" is a twelve-panel polyptich, painted by Jan Van Eyck and his brother Hubert in the 1400s. The work is not only striking but represents a new advance in the technique of painting, particularly as regards realism and perspective. We spent an hour looking at it and listening to its story.
The rest of the morning found us wandered around Ghent and its many chocolate shops. About at the end of our tour I saw a Belgian specialty on offer, one we haven't yet partaken of. Belgian waffles--which now dominate the world outside of Waffle House--are different from most in being made with a foamy batter baked in an iron with large squares. Instead of syrup, fresh fruit and a variety of sauces top them.
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Max.[/caption]
The shop is called Max. At first glance, I thought it was yet another gallery featuring the art of Peter Max (which is on sale everywhere in the world, it seems). The cafe's logo resembles the artist's signature. But the place predates the artist by quite a bit, as evidenced by its Art Nouveau French decor.
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A real Belgian waffle.[/caption]
Waffle Maison came with berries and a sauce of Grand Marnier and whipped cream. The waffle itself was so light that you could almost breathe it in, while also being crisp at the exterior. Very good, and with a cappuccino the perfect last thing to eat in Ghent.
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The Gravensteen in Ghent.[/caption]
We had one more landmark to check. We both remembered well the Gravensteen, a genuine castle with moats, memories of kings and knights and dukes and barbarians at the gate. It looked in better shape than I remembered--certainly good for having been built in 1180. Its days as a prison also reflect themselves loud and clear. The presence of rails embeddded in the streets makes it feel a little like New Orleans, except that our streetcars are older than Ghent's.
The young man at the front desk at the hotel printed out a detailed route for getting out of town. But once again the difficulty of detecting the names of streets tripped us up in the first ten minutes of our egress. We wound up at a Honda dealership, where MA asked them for directions while I kept moving the car back and forth to allow a series of cars in and out, hoping that in so doing I would not get lost at some small-scale, heretofore unknown level of confusion.
Until this time, every waiter, room clerk, bellman, shopkeeper, chocolatier, and taxi driver spoke near-perfect English. In fact, a lot of them remarked that they were glad we spoke English instead of French. French is one of the two official languages of Belgium. But the main lingo seems now to be Flemish, essentially the same as Dutch. Almost all the local television stations broadcast in Flemish.
The Honda guys had a battle explaining the route out of Ghent until a mechanic stepped in, pointed to a church steeple, and said with his hands that if we would go there, turn left, and stay on that street, it would take us to the main highway. Simple, but effective for us American dummies. We were on our way to Antwerp.
Antwerp was our first city outside Brussels last time. We had lunch on its Grand Place, where most of the businesses were in the jewelry trade at the highest levels. MA ate what she thought was chicken salad, but which she described later as "a mayonnaise sandwich." My order was for "steack Americaine"--steak tartare. Apparently Europeans believe we eat raw beef all the time.
We never made it to Antwerp's center. As we headed that way along a waterway deep enough to support enormous cargo ships, we got caught up in a lot of traffic on the two-lane, cobblestone road. The day grew late and clouds promised rain. At least we weren't lost, for a change. I let Mary Ann be the first one to opine that maybe we ought to turn around and head back towards Brussels. I seconded that idea. Antwerp will have to wait until next time.
Our flight to Rome tomorrow is unfortunately scheduled at seven in the morning. It would have been risky to go back to the Brussels centrum and face the still-puzzling drive to the airport. But we knew there was another Marriott near the airport, because we stopped there to ask for directions two days ago.
The hotel near the airport is never very interesting. I hoped that the tram running in front of the hotel (banging its bell at every stop throughout the night) would go right into the centrum, but it doesn't. The concierge offered bus diections into town, but MA doesn't do buses.
So we slaked our thirst and hunger in the bar-café downstairs. It seemed promising until the food began to come out, after which it was clear we were eating more or less as we would in a Marriott Courtyard in America. The final insult came, of course, from the frites. The waiter said they're fresh cut most of the time, but not tonight.
[title type="h6"] Yesterday || Tomorrow[/title]
Written by Tom Fitzmorris April 15, 2014 01:01 in
