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Last week: I ate lacquements

The month of October means only one thing here in Liege:

The Fun Fair is in town!

The Foire de Liege runs for more than 1km through the Parc d'Avroy and is brimming with sensory delights; flashing fluorescent colours, lip-smacking sugary and savoury aromas and a whole host of heart-stopping attractions to fling you into positions you didn't deem possible.

Fairgrounds are much of a muchness wherever you go and, in many ways, the Foire de Liege, is not unlike the fairgrounds of my childhood with dodgy boom-boom chart/techno music, worthless tat for prizes, greasy hamburgers and seedy looking power-happy guys with tobacco-stained faces operating the dodgems. You can even hear French equivalent cries of 'Scream if you wanna go faster' in a thick Walloon accent if you listen carefully. In other ways, however, there are some subtle differences. In terms of political correctness, we have always been streets ahead in the UK and freak shows were dispensed with many years ago as were live animals and, even after so many years living on the continent, I am still in a state of shock when I see sad-eyed poneys tethered to a merry-go-round and my hot dog is served up by a bearded lady. And whilst I've never seen anybody win a goldfish in a polythene bag here in Liege, I have certainly never been able to enjoy a hearty mug of mulled wine at St Helens Show.

Nowadays I have a split personality when it comes to the fun fair. In one way, I revert back to childhood and overexcitement gets the better of me. One attraction I am still powerless to resist is the Kentucky Derby, where I enthusiastically roll wooden balls into holes until my plastic horse passes the finishing line first, much to the dismay of the five year-olds competing against me. But the more dangerous hair-raising attractions are now a thing of the past for me, after several bad experiences have seen me doubled over and vomiting after being spun sideways and upside down until my face turned green.

The last days of our Indian Summer at weekend gave me the perfect opportunity to drag my husband to the Foire de Liege for the purpose of trying something new for this blog. Not brave enough to be strapped into a bungee rocket or stupid enough to waste money on trying to win a furry Bob l'eponge (the French think 'Squarepants' is going too far), I figured it was time for a sweet treat. At the Foire de Liege, you can find all the usual fairground delicacies, but if you want to be truly Liegeois, you should forget candy floss and join the back of the endless queue for a box of lacquements.  

So, what the Dickens is a lacquement?

Other than being a potential heart attack wrapped in a serviette, lacquements/laquements/lakemans (in typical confusing Belgian fashion, there are allegedly 7 different officially recognised spellings) are like thin waffles sliced in two and stuffed with sugar candy syrup. They are then heated in a waffle iron (every home should have one) and served doused in even more syrup. After some research (lacquements are such a local speciality that they have a very limited appearance on Google Search), I discovered that two of the key ingredients that seem to give them their distinctive taste are orange flower and cinnamon. They were invented in 1903 by Monsieur Desire Smidts who named them after his place of work, but why they are still the fairground fodder of choice over 100 years later, nobody seems to know. Thinking back to my previous places of  work, I wonder if I could have made my millions by creating my own cake and naming it 'Bolton Virgin Megastore'....Or a pie called 'Remploy'?

Apparently it is quite a shocking state of affairs that I have lived in Liege for over a decade and never even tasted a lacquement. Real sticklers for tradition, many of my Liege comptatriots descend in their droves on the October fair just to get their mitts on a box of the sugary delights. They couldn't care less about the dodgems or the Hook-a-duck. "What's the fuss about?", I wondered.

Surely at 7 Euros for a box of 6 they should be a strong competitor for the best thing I've ever tasted? We sat on a bench on one of Liege's many charming squares in the October sunshine and tucked in. Within seconds I needed a bath, suddenly realising why they come in a handy portable box and that the general trend is to take-away so that they can be eaten in the comfort of your own home without embarrassing yourself in public. Oh well...at least there's a nice ornamental fountain around the corner where I can shower down. Which was switched off....

We enjoyed our tasty treat and had a second one each the day after, but a week later, there's still two left in the fridge (and I made some sensational Walnut and Honey Loaf in the meantime), so maybe they're not really my cup of tea after all...

Would I try this again?: The jury's out...

If you've got a waffle iron going rusty in your kitchen cupboard, you can find the traditional recipe here.

A Day at the Races

This week for the first time ever: I went Lindy Hop Dancing.

Last weekend saw the arrival of one of my favourite annual events: La Fête de la Musique, when the Francophone cities of the world are treated to three days of wall-to-wall free music. After a manic rock 'n' roll fuelled Friday night and an enthusiastic and well-received performance with Android 80 in the town of Malmédy on Saturday evening, what could be better than taking a trip back in time and revelling in the laissez-faire ambience of the Roaring 20s?

As part of the weekend's events, my friend Vincent was hosting an afternoon 'thé dansant' in the park and the dance of choice was Lindy Hop. It was not until very recently that I had heard of Lindy Hop. My friend Rebecca has been taking classes in Brussels and this piqued my curiosity. The dance first evolved in Harlem in 1927 as a mutation of Breakaway and Charleston and incorporated elements of tap and was made popular in the famous Savoy Ballroom. It was named after Charles Lindbergh's atlantic crossing in 1927.
As it turns out, I am slightly familiar with it through its other name, 'Jitterbug'.

Thanks to Vincent for recommending this scene from The Marx Brothers 'A Day at the Races' featuring Whitey's Lindy Hoppers. I'm sure I don't have far to go to reach the same level as the girl 52 seconds in.

Lindy Hop is a swing dance set to jazz and ragtime and, with a fondness for this kind of music, I had high hopes for an enjoyable afternoon. So I slowly ambled down to Liège's Parc d'Avroy in that half-hearted, post-alcohol manner that comes with the territory of Sunday afternoons.

On first arrival, events seemed a little tragic: One lone hippy-looking guy was flopping around the dancefloor to a Duke Ellington number, admittedly putting his best foot foward, but I have doubts that Caterpillar sandals were ever the footwear of choice at The Cotton Club. As often occurs on a June weekend in Belgium, the weather was also putting a dampener on proceedings. It was the kind of weather that lulls you into the false sense of security that Summer's almost here kids, until two minutes later, somebody creeps up behind you and throws a bucket of water over your head.

Never one to let the weather prevent my enjoyment, I ordered a round of beers (the Belgians would not dream of serving PG Tips at a tea dance) for me, my husband and the friends we had bumped into and dragged along, and soon settled into the relaxed Sunday atmosphere appreciating the delights of Count Basie, Louis Jordan and Cab Calloway. I was especially thrilled to hear Ella Fitzgerald's 'Paper Moon' and thought to myself, "If there's a dance to go with this music, I want to learn it!"

The opportunity was not too far away, as Vincent had engaged two teachers who were more than willing to share their expertise, and, before long, I was forming part of a 'Lindy Circle' on the dancefloor. After mastering some very basic steps in 8 time, we partnered up and put our newly acquired skills to the test. The girls where asked to move around the circle with the aim of changing partners, as is common practice in dance classes. I particularly enjoyed dancing with a little Indian guy half my height who seemed unable to stop giggling, but not so much with a little weasely guy wearing a flat cap who spun me 'round and 'round to the point of nausea. I became more and more relaxed with what seemed to be my kind of movements; shuffling feet, a shake of the leg, a shimmy here, a shimmy there...In fact, I was later informed by my husband that the Lindy Hop is no different to the way that I normally dance!

Looks a bit more like Riverdance here...

When the occasion presented itself to pair up with the professional dance teacher, it was clear that I was now a Lindy Hop afficionado, worlds apart from the other beginners and just a couple of lessons away from embarking on a new career in the world of dance. Bruce Forsyth would soon be knocking on my door.

Would I try it again?: Where do I sign up?