Happy New Year!

Mesdames and Messieurs....HAPPY NEW YEAR and ALL THE VERY HAIRY CHEST!

The final couple of weeks of 2011 for me were as hectic as the end of a year can get. Much of my December timetable was clogged up with the sterotypical seasonal events of hunting out suitable but affordable gifts, the thankless task of writing Christmas cards and dipping in and out of Liege's magical 'Village de Noel' for the odd glass of mulled wine and  merry-making. The highlight of the yuletide season was the two weekends when we had the pleasure of hosting family and friends, which, added to a week-long visit to the parental home for the Christmas period, culminated in a rollercoaster of emotions from shared belly laughs to tearful goodbyes.

I'm hoping all this maybe serves as a valid excuse for my recent silence and seeming neglect of my blog. I have a tendency to scribble my thoughts down during my arduous daily train journeys, from which I have had a very welcome break, and, to put it bluntly, I have been having too much of a good time to be arsed with my blog. There I've said it!

Now it's back to business as usual and I'm hoping to keep my blog high on the list of priorities. Like every other Tom, Dick and Harry, I'm starting the New Year with the best intentions, determined to reduce my intake of alcohol and quit the 'bines and, of course, fit perfectly into a size 6 before bikini season is upon us - the latter is of particular importance after having to endure my brother refer to me as 'Mr Corden' over the last two weeks. My main focus this year will be to increase the level of creativity in my life, hopefully digging out my guitar again and attempting to write some more songs and develop my blog further (guest blogs and maybe even a new blog entirely). I already have some new experiences in mind to write about - hell, I'm even taking the day off work this week to try something new.

Before I turn my attention to 2012, I would like to dwell for a little while on the positive aspects of 2011.

Buying a bike
Despite the discovery that I am subject to bouts of road rage and have a vocabulary of French expletives that would make Bernard Manning blush, getting from A to B has been made much easier by the purchase of a city bike earlier this year. The morning ride along the river bank is a much better way to start the day than sitting with my head buried underneath my coat trying to stifle the odour of whoever has omitted to apply deodorant sat next to me on a stuffy bus.

Learning to bake
Another string to my bow that I never thought possible - has had adverse effects on my waistline but vastly increased my popularity amongst colleagues.

Starting a blog
Many moons ago, putting pen to paper came easily to me and was how I planned to earn my living. But life  got in the way and after years of writer's block and dwindling inspiration, I am overjoyed that I am finally back in the zone and have this outlet for my nonsense with the added bonus that people seem to read it and the odd weirdo seems to enjoy it.

Moving house
Good riddance to a bone idle landlord and house that was literally falling to pieces around our ears and hello to a new pad, so warm and cosy that a slanket is practically superfluous to requirements.

Learning to tap dance
For those who recall my earlier blog and lame attempts at fancy footwork, 11 lessons down the line, I can now perform a Shim Sham Shimmy (though not quite yet comfortably in public).

To Liege With Love xxx

It was a wet, grey and gloomy afternoon in the Summer of 1999, when I drank my first Cecemel Chaud on Wallonian soil. Looking around me at the ugly rainy atmosphere, the graffiti-ridden buildings and the abundant canine faecal matter, I wondered: "What am I doing here? Is this really going to be my home for the unforseeable future? Have I made a huge mistake?"

12 years later and I'm still here. One of the stalwarts. Practically a pillar of the community. Known to many locals as 'Clairvoyant', 'Madame Android 80' or just simply 'l'anglaise'. Unable to travel just a few yards down the road without a salutatory peck on the cheek, a friendly wave or even being dragged into the nearest cafe for 'un verre'. Wherever I have lived before, my existence has been one of anonymity and, in some places, almost been met with downright resentment. Not in Liege. Its warm and colourful people have opened their arms to me, welcomed me into the very heart of their cosy community, nurtured my eccentricities and drank to my health.

I'm not sure when my love affair with Liege began. It slowly crept up on me like alcoholic intoxication and I have, metaphorically speaking (and possibly even literally), never sobered up since. In the scheme of things, Liege is pretty much a non-entity: Lacking the splendour of Prague or the glamour of Barcelona, its dreary climate and central European location makes it nothing more than a convenient toilet stop on the way to Berlin, Amsterdam or Paris. But this is the city where an elderly gentleman feels comfortable enough to walk around a town centre supermarket with his pet cockatoo perched on the edge of a trolley; where the dogs are better dressed than most people and are treated to Saturday afternoon ice-cream; where a guy with a Salvador Dali moustache arrives on horseback for his Sunday morning coffee; where the gardening shops have racks of mint condition second-hand vinyl sat amongst the bottles of weed killer; where there's an annual spaghetti eating contest; where more than a handful of people use unicycles as a valid form of transport. Liege embraces all of life's eccentricities and with its hippy philosophy, manana attitude, flair for the creative and utmost respect for the absurd, offers a haven where Australian students, Iranian political refugees and Bolivian pan pipers can use one of its multitude of festivals as a convenient excuse to celebrate life.

It is with the heaviest heart that I feel compelled to relay events that have occured this week that would be enough to chew up and spit out even the most solid of communities. On Tuesday afternoon at approximately 12h30, a local man named Nordine Amrani opened fire in Liege's Place St Lambert massacring 4 people (a toddler, 2 teenagers and a 75 year old lady) and leaving many others gravely injured and the rest of us in a state of shock and bewilderment. Just inches away from the Christmas Village; last year covered in snow, this year a blood bath. After first lethally shooting a woman in a shed that he owned, armed with an assault rifle, a revolver and hand grenades, he indulged in the kind of murdering spree alien to most provincial towns, before turning a gun on himself and taking his own life. A convicted rapist and drug dealer, also previously charged for possession of lethal weapons, Amrani was released for good behaviour in 2010. It is believed that he had no terrorist connections and acted alone.

In committing this atrocity in the bustling Place St Lambert, where the grand architecture of years gone by sits comfortably alongside popular modern day chain stores, Amrani has as good as pierced the very soul of Liege.

The aftermath of these events has left our community reeling. We need answers. We need justice. We need peace of mind. From sick jokes and unwarrented racist slurs (although a Belgian national, Amrani was of Moroccan descent) on Facebook, to demonstrative outpourings of grief at the site of the incident via genuine heartfelt compassion, nobody has been left feeling indifferent.

Whatever your religion, I urge all my compatriots to take time out and give some thought to the victims. Let's all reflect on and light candles for those senselessly lost lives and their grief-stricken families. If action needs to be taken, let's point this in the direction of the justice system and the arms industry who have seemingly failed us by allowing the circumstances for this act of evil to take place. Let's eliminate the fear. Above all, let's come together and gently pull out the arrow that's pierced our soul and focus on healing so that we can live harmoniously again and Liege can continue to be the welcoming city we all love.

Please don't change, Liege.

Little Ole Wine Drinker Me

Last week: I went to my first ever wine tasting evening



Although I usually only drink the odd small sweet sherry over Christmas, I couldn't help but jump at the chance to attend a wine tasting evening held at our offices last week. At just 13€ a ticket, 'The Grape and the Glorious; Wines for Christmas' sounded like a promising event; the opportunity to taste some affordable but quality vino, mingle with colleagues and nibble on some fine cheese, bread and cold meats. All part of my education. Plus I was sure there would be spittoons just in case I really wasn't in the mood for boozing.

Our hostess was Sarah Morphew Stephen, who boasts the title of first ever female Master of Wine after making her mark on what was previously a male-dominated universe. A delightful lady, Sarah is knowledageble, witty and bursting with anecdotes and top tips to help novices like myself remove the cloud of mystique that surrounds the world of viticulture.

After a brief introduction from Sarah,where she explained how duty effects wine quality and by investing just a couple of pounds more than £3.99, you can happen on a rather decent bottle thank you very much, we got stuck into the whites. Our first wine on the list was the Vignobles Des Aubas Colombard-Gros Manseng 2010. Not so dissimilar to my usual white of choice, Sauvignon Blanc, this wine was dry, nice and crisp and packed with citrus flavours. Suprisingly, this Gascony nectar will only set you back £5.99 from Majestic. Until that evening I had never heard of Majestic Wine Warehouses before, but after trying some of the wines Sarah had selected from their range and seeing the competitive prices, I will definitely try to find an opportunity to browse their aisles. According to Sarah, it's hard to find staff with such great expertise, thanks to their meticulous training - the person hired to head up the Spanish wine section was sent to Spain on a month-long assignment shadowing the country's leading expert. For my training at Virgin Megastore, I was escorted into a cupboard, handed a roll of 99p stickers and a pile of cd singles and left there for the rest of the day to get on with it.

Our second white was 'Tesco's Finest' Mendoza Chardonnay 2009. Dubbed a 'granny' wine by Sarah due to it's potent nature (14 degrees alcohol makes it sweet enough to please the less discerning palate), this is best enjoyed with a heavy starter like foie gras. Finding it a little rough and overpowering and in the absence of such fancy schmancy entrées, I was more than happy to move on to the rosé. Sainsbury's provided the Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon Rosé, my second favourite wine of the evening. It was interesting to learn that until around 3 years ago, the popularity of rosé wine had completely dwindled thanks to the dodgy reputation thrust upon it by old 70's favourite Mateus. Thankfully we now have a much more palatable range to choose from, including Shiraz rosés and the likes of d'Anjou made from aristocratic grapes. On the other hand, Mateus is still the most imported wine in the USA. No way rosé.

Sarah definitely displayed a preference for New World wines, reflecting the growing trend in the UK where French wines are now only number 5 on the list of most imported, with Australian being the most popular and Chilean not too far behind. By far the highlight of the evening was The Crossings Marlborough New Zealand Pinot Noir, the most expensive, of course (£9.95), but definitely worth seeking out at The Wine Society.




Beware of overflowing spittoons.......

 
Although the wines under scrutiny that evening were mostly available in UK stores, Sarah had also taken the time to visit some Belgian supermarkets and suggested some viable alternatives. We came away armed with bundles of information and hurriedly scribbled notes. In total, we tried 7 wines, leaving me enough time to catch a train at a reasonable hour and my colleagues to empty any remnants from the stray bottles dotted around the room, which I'm sure they did admirably.

Would I try this again?: Go on then. Just one more for the road.
                                     More than £3.99? Sorry it's the end of the month.

Some interesting points from a Master of Wine:

1. "It's not food, it's mood"
Giving me carte blanche to ignore any wine snobs that I may encounter in the future, it was refreshing to hear an expert play down the importance of the correct pairing of wine and cuisine.

2. 72% of all wine purchased in the UK is consumed within 24 hours
The other 28% is presumably consumed in the checkout queue.

3. Adding a tablespoon or so of sweet dessert wine to a poor quality white wine can work magic. Likewise with port and red wine
Now there's an excuse to purchase a bottle of port if ever there was one...

They Eat it in the Congo

Last week: I ate Congolese food for the first time

As a child, I was a rather fussy eater to say the least. At primary school, I made an art form of hiding uneaten vegetables so that I was allowed a slice of chocolate cake for afters and, on one occasion, my cousin's Grandma served me sugarless jam sandwiches for lunch because there was nothing else in her pantry that I could stomach. There were some days when my diet consisted of 2 oz of Cola Cubes and whatever my parents managed to force feed me in the evenings.

I still have my moments, but on the whole, I am far more compliant these days, although my mother-in-law would probably beg to differ. Important as it is to me to broaden my culinary horizons, there are some things that I really don't think were ever meant for human consumption. I'm thinking specifically of one occasion when I was tucking into lunch in a French school canteen when my exchange partner proudly exclaimed "eet eez ze Sheep's brain". Or when killing time before a train in fabulous Brussels art nouveau bar A la Mort Subite, I inadvisably ordered popular Flemish bar snack 'kip kap'. One of the few Flemish words I've managed to retain is 'kip' (chicken), so misguidely, I expected a plate of chicken nuggets with some funky kind of dip, but to my horror, received a dish full of cubed 'tête pressée' (pressed pig's head) with a rather unappetising layer of jelly as the icing on the cake.

Last Thursday, I was invited along to an office night out to bid au revoir to my lovely colleague Joni who is about to embark on an exciting opportunity working for the EU Delegation in the Gambia. It was a tall order locating a Gambian restaurant in Brussels, so we settled on a Congolese joint in Matongé - the ethnic quarter of Ixelles. Apparently you don't get more authentic than Kuumba, and at weekends, the place is packed to the rafters with Africans hankering for a taste of home and Brussels locals out to try something other than moules frites. On a week night, Kuumba was far from rowdy, but we were enough in our party for a convivial atmosphere.

We had opted in advance for the €25 per head buffet, a little steep if you ask me, but nobody did. On the plus side, I would've had no idea whatsoever what to order and this way, we all got to try a little of everything. There was bound to be something really tasty that I liked....wasn't there?

Waiting for our feast to arrive, my eyes scanned the drinks menu. It was a sad state of affairs; even after overcoming my initial disappoint at the glaring absence of 'Um Bongo', I was dismayed to see that there wasn't anything of Congolese origin - some cheeky homebrew to liven up proceedings, for example. But no. It was Jupiler all round. When in Belgium...

Cassava is the world's third most popular carbohydrate though it's difficult to see why. Resembling lumps of marzipan, I can safely say that it's the only thing I've ever eaten that tastes of nothing (although there is a slight aftertaste of wet dog). I was not alone in my disgust for this; one colleague was so repulsed that she was compelled to move the plate to the next table to avoid the cassava appearing in her field of vision. Maybe there are different ways to serve it and this was just cassava in its blandest form. I might be a big fan if it was topped with baked beans and cheddar and served with a smile at my local Cassavaulike.

I was delighted when a bowl of plantain was delivered to my end of the table along with a relatively tasty spinach dish. I'm pretty sure there was some kind of meat lurking among the leaves, but was informed to keep stumm as the vegetarians were arm wrestling over it on the other side of the table. Meanwhile a severed fish head was looking up at me from my plate. I picked at it for a while, nibbled on a bit of crispy skin and then realised that the only way I was going to sate my appetite was by scoffing the whole thing - eyes and all. I braced myself with a hefty swig of beer and, just as I was about to take the plunge, the waitress served up a piping hot dish of Chicken Mwambe. Saved by the belle.

The Mwambe contained far more bones than I would've cared for, as did the fish stew. But compared with what came next, this was a veritable feast. The pièce de résistance was a plate full of the wonderful delicacy that is goat meat. The first time I ate goat meat, it was in a Jamaican curry, a necessary and clever ruse clearly employed to disguise everything about it. But at Kuumba, it was presented to us in its natural state - tough, overly salty and tasting exactly like how a goat smells. Five kinds of vile.

Authentic indeed. Maybe even a little too authentic for my pampered Western palate.

Would I try this again?: I would resort to cannibalism first.

Y Viva Espana!

Last week: I had my first homecooked Spanish meal

A lazy Bank Holiday Friday spent mostly in pyjamas in front of the TV could have no better conclusion than a dinner invitation. Although I am passionate about cooking, nothing beats being catered for and waited on and the idea of a Spanish hostess was particularly appealing. Maria and her Belgian boyfriend, Rémy, promised us a typically homecooked Spanish menu with substantial amounts of alcohol to wash it down: They did not disappoint. Unfortunately, I don't get to indulge in Spanish cuisine very often. It's way too many years since I holidayed in Spain and we are not exactly falling over decent Spanish restaurants here in Liège. There are several tapas establishments, but outside of Spain, tapas bars are the very antithesis of what they should be and often set you back a small fortune for something that is little more than an average bar snack.

This was going to be a great evening...

We were greeted with a very refreshing aperitif called Pomada, a Menorcan Xoriguer gin based cocktail which helped liven up my demeanour after my sloth-like existence of the previous hours. Conversation flowed and we listened to a vastly eclectic soundtrack of everything from 90s Spanish Indie to 50s Surf Rock with a few Bix Beiderbecke numbers thrown in for good measure (appealing to the budding tapdancers amongst us). Maria and Rémy's flat is a great place to hang out, its 16th floor panoramic peninsular view being one of the finest I've seen of Liège.

The food was nothing short of heavenly. First of all we nibbled on lomo and slices of bread smeared with tapenade and a fairly mild but tasty Spanish cheese called Queso Idiazabal from the Navarra area of Northern Spain. Maria's homemade tortilla (or Pincho de tortilla, as it was served on bread) was by far the best I've ever tasted and I'm hoping that it's not made according to some top secret family recipe as I'd like to steal it and try it for myself. Next up was Rollo de berenjena con jamón y queso - a simple but elegant starter of ham and cheese enrobed in aubergine. Right up my street. I'm not sure what technique was employed to make this cheese melt in the mouth so beautifully and burst with so much flavour and creaminess, but I'm pretty sure I could never pull this off. For our main meal we had cod baked in a rich tomato and pepper garlic sauce - Bacalao a la vizcaina. My parents taught me that it's impolite to lick your plate at the dinner table, otherwise I can guarantee I would have had tomato sauce in my eyebrows.

Maria informed us that the dessert was her first attempt at a family favourite that hadn't gone according to plan as it was too fluid in consistency. I think the idea behind Natillas de chocolate is similar to blancmange, but Maria's version hadn't set properly. She was disappointed, but it didn't stop us guzzling down the tasty chocolate pudding (everything goes down the same way) and we decided that we should add a little alcohol, just because there was a bottle of Licor 43 that needed finishing off and it would've been rude not to. Scrumptious indeed.

The evening was rounded off with a couple of rounds of whisky and a few parlour games. 'The Rizla Game' is one of my personal favourites; the person sitting to your left sticks a cigarette paper to your forehead bearing the name of a famous personality and your job is to ask the right questions and discover your identity (as played by the Nazis in Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds and during many a fun night round at our house with friends and family, long before that American horn-rimmed chancer dreamt it up). On this occasion, all I managed to reveal was my poor political knowledge, taking forever to guess that I was, in fact, sleazy Italian leader Silvio Berlusconi, which I then embarrassingly mispronounced as Berscolini and called Roberto. Oops. Well, I can name the entire cast of Dallas and all the members of Spandau Ballet and their wives, but politics is just not my strong point.

Another game that we embarked upon was a card game called 'Jungle Speed', which is basically a more sophisticated version of old favourite 'Snap'. When I say 'sophisticated', I mean more complex, as there is nothing sophisticated about fighting to the death over a wooden totem, which you have to be the first to grab if your card matches your opponent's (possibly also played in Nazi Germany). Rémy informed me that the last time he played, he managed to break a girl's tooth. I contemplated wearing a helmet, gum shield and shin pads. The game is both fun and so tense that you can hear each of your opponent's heartbeats racing. I am proud to announce that I cleaned up with all my teeth still intact, although Maria may have the odd bruise.

Would I try this again?: Copacabana! There's no place like la casa.

Songs For Songs' Sake Part 4

If a Kid - Great Mountain Fire
Burnt Toast and Black Coffee - Mike Pedicin
Flipsville - Stormy Gayle
Tomorrow - Kitty, Daisy & Lewis
Primrose Hill - John & Beverley Martyn
Saxophone No. 2 - Lord Kitchener
Hi-Heel Sneakers - Jose Feliciano
I Could Be So Good For You - Dennis Waterman
Killing in the Name of - The Apples
Harpsichord Shuffle - Wynder K Frog
Son of My Father - Chicory Tip
Blow Your Head - Fred Wesley & the J.B.'s
Jenny Artichoke - Kaleidoscope
Little Surprise - The Wave Pictures
Where Do All the Raindrops Go? - Brent Cash
For You - Solvent
Echoing Light - Brian Olive

Feeling a Little Saucy...

Last week: I tasted HP Guiness

I have just returned to Belgium after a much-needed week off work, giving me the opportunity to fly to Liverpool and spend a rather splendid week celebrating a friend's wedding, attending a surprise 60th birthday party thrown for my Aunty and, most importantly, spending some quality time with my nearest and dearest. As is customary on these visits back home, I consumed far more than I should have; bacon butties every morning, real British ales in the delightful Turk's Head and Dad’s delicious curries, not forgetting the essential St Helens delicacy - pasties. More than ever, the streets of St Helens are now paved with budget shops galore: Poundland, Home Bargains and a plethora of 99p shops (rumour has it, there is a 98p shop in Burnley). You can now even visit Poundbakery where you can choose any two pies/pasties from the myriad of flavours in return for handing over just a quid. The woman in front of me in the queue was buying eight items - hopefully to feed a family of four, although, judging buy her frame and complexion, I suspect that this was just a light snack in between bargain hunting. I hasten to add that the thrifty price leads to no loss in quality - I had the tastiest Chicken Korma pasty known to man.

I am like a kid in a toy shop when I'm in a UK supermarket. Although I consider Belgian food among the finest in the world, the Belgians score nulle points when it comes to convenience food and anything you can buy in a packet/wrapped in plastic is either overly expensive or just down right revolting. In UK shops I am instantly drawn towards anything bearing the beaming face of Ainsley Harriott or brandished with a sticker proclaiming 'Just add water'. Whilst quality is high on the agenda in Belgian supermarkets, variety often takes a back seat. A recent nationwide competition to invent the most creative flavour for potato chips inspired 'Indian Curry' crisps which have adorned shop shelves back in England since most of us were in short pants.

The highlight of this latest visit was to be found on the condiment shelf in Asda. Sporting a big red half price sticker, amongst a collection of at least 57 other glass or squeezy bottles was the novelty item that is HP Guiness. I am not a lover of Brown Sauce. In fact, I don't really know what it is. Have you ever tried explaining HP Sauce to a Belgian? Good luck with that. Powerless to resist the cut-price offer, my Mum bought a big bottle of this new variety and, the morning after the night before, it appeared in front of me as I grappled with my sausage on toast. With that familiar squelch, my sausages were soon decorated with the stuff. Suddenly my breakfast had all the hearty qualities of a Steak and Ale pie and I was drooling and squeezing on more sauce. Mmmmmm.

Would I try this again?: I am kicking myself that I didn't go back to Asda for a bottle to bring back with me.

My Top 5 Sauces:

 1. Heinz Curry Mango Sauce
Fruity, tangy and spicy, I get through at least one bottle of this per month, drowning everything from sausages to salad in it. I particularly like it mixed together with mayonnaise, tuna and onion and ladled onto a hot, oven-baked potato.

2. Chip Shop Curry
Unappetising in apperance given it's pooey-brown-with-a-hint-of-green colour, maybe it's nostalgia, but there's nothing better than chip shop curry turning your chips soggy. Of course this industrially manufactured flour-based mush bears little similarity to curry, but if you're lucky, you may find the odd raisin floating around to add a touch of the exotic. You can now buy Harry Ramsden's Chip Shop Curry Sauce for just 29p a sachet, saving you a trip to the local chippie. Just add water.

3. Sauce Bresil

When it comes to sauce, it's a photo-finish between the Brits and the Belgians. One of the best things about Belgian friteries other than, of course, their chips, is the variety of sauces on offer. Bri prefers the wildly spicy Samourai sauce (I can almost hear the advert: 'Samourai Sauce. Mayonnaise For Men.'), whilst I usually opt for Sauce Bresil, which I guess is not unlike Heinz Curry Mango.

4. Sauce Lapin
The Belgian version of my Mum's gravy with a twist: a spoonful of the treacle-like Sirop de Liege is added to give a sweeter and richer flavour. No rabbits were harmed in the making of this sauce.

5. Horseradish Sauce
The culinary equivalent of Vicks Vapour Rub, this sharp and powerful sauce has a huge kick and clears out your sinuses a treat. Horseradish is from the same plant family as wasabi which should also be handled with care.