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At the Rathaus, Bremen

All over Bremen, there are icons of a donkey with a dog (with a cat (with a rooster on its back) on its back) on its back, so I asked–over some raki at a Turkish restaurant–what’s the deal with this.  Here’s the story.

The donkey was aging and didn’t want to work anymore.  One day, he kicked the shit out of the farmer who had raised him from birth then buried the corpse in a dung heap.  “Fuck this,” he thought; “I’ve still got some good years left in me.  I’m going to Bremen to be a musician,”  as you do.

A bunch of murder mysteries, no doubt…

On the road, he came across a dog.  “Whaddup, bitch?” he asked the dog.  “I’ll tell you whaddup, you goofy looking mofo.  The hunter I worked for had a little, shall we say, ‘accident’ so I’m getting out of town till the heat is off.  What about yourself?”  The donkey told the dog his plan to be a musician; “I’m all over that,” said the dog, dreaming of groupies and the donkey tranquilizers he could probably score.

They continued on down the road to Bremen.  They met a cat licking its paw.  “What’s your story, pussy?”  “The old lady switched me to dry food…said she couldn’t afford expensive canned food.  She should have thought about spending that extra money on repairing that clawed up bit of carpet at the top of her stairs, as it turned out.”  “Dude, you’ll fit into our band, nicely.”  And, off they went.

They met a rooster soon after, a bit twitchy and on edge.  “Nice bling,” the donkey said noting the glint of silver on the rooster’s spur.  “Yeah, tools of the trade and I used it to fix the tool of the trade that wanted me to take a dive at the next fight,” he crowed.  “Hey, you got some pipes.  You want to join our band?  We’re going to Bremen to gig.”  Of course, you get the picture.

In Bremen, they needed some quick money so found a retirement home.  The pensioners of the town were well off so they figured they could busk for a few coins outside the window.  “What about a little choreography?” asked the rooster.  “Here,” said the donkey, “Bitch, you climb up on my back, Pussy on her’s, Cock on top…now, let’s go over and sing.”

Propaganda piece for the Bremen Musicians

Their voices blended dischordantly, an awful racket.  What did you think would happen?  They were murderous farm animals, not touchy-feely cartoon characters, for-christ’s-sake.  It was awful and the old guy nearest the window shut it and pulled the curtain in a vain attempt to mute the cacophony.

“Did you see that shit?” asked the donkey.  “Of course I saw it, I’m eight feet up in the air, Ass,” said the rooster.  “Let’s show them how we do this Bavarian-style,” said the dog and with that the donkey lept through the window with his stack of accomplices.

No one seemed disturbed by the sweaty, middle-aged foreigner in revealing running shorts taking photos of their kids (and, why should they?).

Since kids may be reading this, I will refrain from detailing the carnage that ensued or the taste for freshly slain pensioner flesh these beasts developed on that day.  Their career as musicians was definitely in a shambles after this, but the youth of Bremen seemed to love their authoritarian brutality; they were elected to the town council by overwhelming margins (although the stink of fraud and voter intimidation still lingers to this day). Many monuments to them were erected during their long reign.

I think that’s how the story goes, anyway.

They even appear in Mexican restaurants, here (Mexcall in Aldstadt, Bremen)

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An arduous journey culminated in landing at the tiny Bremen Airport (larger than the one in Athens, Georgia but smaller than Lovell Field in Chattanooga).  My hotel was attached to the lobby by a covered walk across the tramway and after exchanging notes with my colleague who arrived earlier I retired to my room where I cracked open a Becks and found a rubbery packet placed on my pillow (but I’ve stayed in crappier places that I SHOULD have been able to say that about).

I awoke at 5 by habit but was still sleepy and lounged around till 6 before stretching and going for a bit of a run around the bleak neighbourhood (mostly industrial park).  There are as many bike lanes in Bremen as in a Dutch city, so finding a place to run is pretty straightforward.  Work was a chore because we left so many bits we actually needed back in Oxford (on the advice of my boss and the folks at the development labs).  Non-disclosure agreements limit that discussion to essential that.

Okay, it means radio-controlled clock; but, I like the idea of getting my daily newspaper at a place called, “Funk Hour.”

Work went on, regardless, and we eventually released our tired hosts and my Russian mate went home to the hotel.  I opted to change back into my running gear and went out to explore the beer/running dichotomy, Bremen style.

Bremen is never going to be a huge tourist spot, but it is quite a charming city.  It has a contrarian history (one of the furthest west Soviet Republics, until this was quickly quashed) and the folks here are quite nice if you try at all to meet them halfway.  For instance, I sometimes can surprise myself at my comprehension of spoken German because, although I have good grades on my high school transcripts for German language coursework I have absolutely no recollection of ever enrolling, attending, or being examined in these lessons; nonetheless, I managed to follow the simplified-for-my-consumption conversations at the three bars I hit on the route.  Very nice of them to let me try.

Down an alley I spotted the Spitzen Gebel and dashed in for a pilsner.  I had a Haake Beck, which I think I could get used to, then smelled something strange…hey! Folks were smoking in here!  I only have an occasional stogie, but this is what a bar should be like.  The small venue was packed and friendly and reasonably priced.  Moreover, I was the only non-local in the place despite its proximity to what should have been the highest density of visitors in the town.

Needing nourishment and loving a kebab, I found a döner place.  No, check that, I found a very good döner place and had quite a delicious pita with lamb, salad, and chilli sauce; not at all greasy and the meat tasted like (and had the texture of) meat.  Result.

Tasty and high quality though it was, I wanted something to was it down and to cleanse the palate.  About a third of the way back to hotel I spotted the weird little side street bar, Baldu, with its Tiki Bar interior and 70′s soundtrack.  I ordered a Franziskaner Weißbier and received an enormous glass of this faintly orange and wheat loveliness that I can still make out, faintly, even after the ‘run’ continued on for one more stop.

Everyone else in the bar was drinking equally large or strong drinks backed with shots of something or other (I recognised vodka and got one for myself after even the bartender rendered horrific face-pulls on some spicy black shot one of the punters bought her…the vodka enhanced the FW, whereas the mystery tipple might have ruined it).

The run started to approach my shoddy airport neighbourhood so I scanned side streets until I spotted a bier sign down one.  I pulled up to the building to find it was a pool hall complete with some stinky bikers out front.  It was still pretty tame inside, the soundtrack included Meat Loaf and the house wine was, I shit you not, Motörhead Shiraz…I had already ordered another Haake Beck but I really wanted to toast Lemmy (maybe I can get someone from work to come shoot a few racks before I have to leave).

 

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Similar to the Monks Retreat, this Wetherspoons bar has more of a real pub (and an old pub) feel to it despite being tucked away on a mezzanine level between the This Mortal Coil, but I found a nice seat and jotted down this and the previous two entries while having a pint of the Windsor Castle house ale (which I suspect is just a bog standard IPA if they would tell the truth about it).  The prices are double what they are in other ‘Spoons, which is to say about in line with what most pubs charge out in the real world…and still cheaper than anything else in the airport.

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Wetherspoons has three styles of pubs, as far as I can tell.  Some are prefabricated steel and precast monstrosities that are usually called “Wetherspoon’s,” while at the other end of the spectrum they have buildings built for purpose–albeit a vastly different purpose than as a pub–that they remodel keeping the better architectural aspects.  The Regal in Swindon and the Penny Black in Bicester are but two examples of this second batch which tend to be fantastic drinking establishments BEFORE you factor in the deeply discounted beverages (search Wetherspoons in the search box at the upper left of this page for other examples).

The Monks Retreat is something of a hybrid, a third way.  The bars are very similar to the rote ‘Spoons in that they have just acquired some retail space.  But, it does have something of the feel of one of the renovations.  I find it strange that it is called the Monks Retreat, though: these days you would think the Catholic clergy would be steering clear of the Courthouse.

I had a Screaming Monk by Loddon Brewery, a fairly light weight ale but still very bitter as though the excess alcohol helps dissolve some of the oil and tannic material from the lightly hopped wort.  Still, it was a pleasant enough way to kill some time before the Heathrow bus was ready to depart.

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It is a very short walk from Reading Station to Broad Street where I just happened upon the Alehouse, a CAMRA favourite with good reason: there were 9 ales on the pumps, 4 ciders, 3 perry, and a batch of Lyme Bay Mead (14.5% ABV).  I played it safe and had a Cotswold Lion Best in Show, a very highly hopped–sharp and bitter like myself–beer that I had never seen before.

The house is quite local down to several of the beer selections and the almost impenetrable Berks accent of the drunk on stool #2.  There are signs around instructing that mobile phone use will not be tolerated and the soundtrack is delightfully spacey instrumental rock of no discernible origin.  Climbing 4 or 5 stairs just past the bar opens up a larger area behind that belies the small façade and suggests this is a much older structure than it seems at first.   For a shopping district pub, you could do worse…a LOT worse.  Go run the taps on these guys, and let me know when you plan to do it.

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Across road from the Old George, I entered the Eliot Arms and noted a much more sedate atmosphere.  A huge old inn (although a stone on the higher ceilinged back half indicates it was added in 1990), it had some pleasant jazz piped in rather than inflicting an assault by television. I enjoyed a Sunbeam, citric and astringent, a beer I have had many times before (like the other offerings, Oxford Gold and–I think–Spitfire…both very good but the Sunbeam suited my palate for the day).

South Cerney is an old town, and I think when it was founded some Prince was going to party like it was 999.  The Cotswold stone is in every bit of construction if only to put a façade on a clapboard structure but it gives the neighbourhood a unified look.  The village is worth a bit of exploration and the proximity to the lakes of the Cotswold Water Park make this a likely stop for future trips.

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A note from Ort (more below) prompted a return to my exploration of real ales.  I haven’t been to a new pub since before the Netherlands trip and was due to leave for Germany on the weekend so slipped away early hitching a ride as far as South Cerney with a colleague that was driving to Cheltenham.  Also a bit slack on the running lately, I did a couple miles before the rain returned by heading down this track called the Bow Wow…this village was probably going to be perfect in these circumstances!

The Old George was also perfect, with an outer appearance reminiscent of a BBQ place I used to hit out near Toccoa, Georgia and named after one of England’s German monarchs (although not the same one that lent his name to mine and Ort’s beloved home State).  Inside, it was another world, though, with everyone glued to the opening of Royal Ascot, mocking the Queen and the spectators (“oooo, she’s wearing the same colour as Her Majesty, how embarrassing,” offered one builder whilst hauling his table’s next round), and all of it in this beautifully low-ceilinged and ancient interior.  I had a Cotswold Spring Codger, in honour of this trip’s muse–not especially sweet but with a fullness that suggested some heavy dosing (the beer and the man).

——–

Ort: I’ve crossed paths with this odd fellow many times in the last 30-plus years, since my earliest trips to Athens in search of trips and checking out what was then an emerging music scene.  When we moved there to attend the University, I got stuck in line behind Ort for twenty minutes as he negotiated, individually, cashing a bag full of cheques none of which was for mor than $2.00: “Oh, yes, and then there is this one for one dollar and thirty-seven cents that I think you’ll find is drawn on THIS bank.  Here, I have sixty-three cents so you can proffer me two ones.”

Easily 10% of my vast collection of LPs and various surreal but useful household goods came from a shop near the 40 Watt that I often browsed on my way to the Manhattan.  Ort, who didn’t so much work there as attend the proceedings would smile and frown simultaneously at any new entrant and then eventually interfere with the planned shopping experience.  One afternoon, while smoking pot, eating burritos and necking a bottle of Evan Williams with this crippled local character in the car park of the Gaines School Kroger, I posited my theory that Ort was insane; “Aww, that’s not right,” he replied, noticeably hurt at this attack on his friend, “Ort’s a sweetie.”

“I’m not questioning his good intentions.  I just mean he’s mad.”
After a short pause, he said, “yes…yes, you might be right.  But, he’s a sweetie.”

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Except for the spectacular weather, no real surprises were in store at the Old Town Festival over the weekend.  Saturday’s line-up of mostly rock bands were impressive but this is a good town for music.  The family oriented Sunday fare was a bit shit, but if you were expecting it to be a bit shit you could really lay back and enjoy yourself.  During one of the brass bands (there were several, along with some talented classical youth groups), we explored some of the tents and I bought a copy of Closing Time from a cat welfare charity table…success!

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“…all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”  –the end of Molly Bloom’s soliloquy, as if you didn’t know, in, Ulysses.  Happy Bloom’s Day, everyone.

As these wine posts always do, here is the link to the most recent prior one (Improving With Age, Wine May 2012 Part 3).

A two day week after vacation started the Friday night before a four day weekend (Spring Bank Holiday and the Queen’s Jubilee).  Jackie picked up some ribeyes for fortification and brought home six bottles of wine, mostly rose but with this nice Cotes du Rhone for the red meat (and we are in the midst of the second rush of asparagus, too…hooray).

The rosé–festival that started with a wrong order in Zuid Limburg the week before—recommenced with a slow roasted chicken.  This Shiraz Rosé had a citric-to-astringent finish but something like strawberries in the mouth.  I’m making some spicy salsa now that the tomatoes look healthy, finally, so this will get another chance with some nachos, soon.

The chicken was huge, a pantomime chicken in fact but remarkably tasty.  I made a pickle-based stir fry sauce and used some of the leftovers for the protein.  I usually trust a Grenache for this kind of abuse and decided to try a rosé version but this one, at least, was not up to the task.  A pity, because it was lovely to finish up with the goat cheese afterward.

Bryan the butcher had some freshly minced beef which is always a good thing, so I bought some Stilton and stuffed some burger patties with it and green (spring) onions.  This Shiraz Rosé was light but complex and full of berry and ripe plum flavours.

With some of the giant chicken still stinking up our freezer, burrito night loomed and I cooked up some beans to go with it.  Still working through the Friday load of rosé, we paired it with a Cabernet variety and had a glass while the spices were spreading in the mixture and found it weak and monochrome but the flavours burst forth between bites of the actual meal…you just never know.

We returned to proper red wines when neither of us could decide on what to cook and opted for Indian takeaway.  Malbec is not a varietal I knew much about a year ago, but it works well with Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and in this case with Syrah.  My spicy tandoori lamb, which would have abused a better beverage, made friends with this inexpensive bottle right away and soon they were singing sentimental songs together.

I bought some lovely steaks and went for a jog while they warmed to room temperature.  This Cotes du Rhone was on sale for 70% off and was surprisingly drinkable despite the complete dispersal of the sediment on the run home.

My imagination in the kitchen has been in a rut, lately, and I need to get out some cookbooks and maybe the pasta roller soon.  However, in the meantime I have just fallen back on the simplest, most mindless cooking choices.  This time, I grabbed a large pork roast and a couple of liters of broth from the freezer, salted the ice block of meat, put the iced broth into a roasting pan with a handfull of garlic cloves, balanced the roast on top of this and put it in a warm (110 C) oven with foil over the lot.  Six hours later, we were back from the day out and the roast was ready to be finished off with a half hour at full heat.  I had my bits of pork smeared with some of the garlic and a bit of vinegar infused with Habanero peppers, so a proper Shiraz was necessary.  Blaxland handled this and the side salad aptly.

We went around to the fruit and veg stands the next day and I got some lovely fresh, early summer items to mix up with the leftover pork.  I was just going to have some iced tea or a beer, but Jackie wanted a bit of wine so I took a jog down to
Tesco only to find I only had 4 quid on me.  The rose fest resumed because this “Simply Rosé” left me with enough change for the local newspaper.  I don’t expect much when this happens (either from the local paper or from Tesco “Simply” sines) and I wasn’t at all surprised this time.  Nothing wrong with the wine, but nothing to really recommend it, unless you want to insult a dinner host.

With no data of any sort and a presentation due in two days, imaginative and time consuming cooking was out of the question.  Spaghetti Bolognese is always good for this situation and Jackie picked up an adequate Bordeaux to go with it.

Fortified to model ion trajectories through some complex electrical fields, I was still thirsty and all we had were whites…and none chilled.  The safest bet seemed to be the citric and sharp 7-8-9 Pinot Grigio.  Very refreshing at room temperature, we finished the bottle cold the next day with some curries.

The presentation went well although the only physical chemistry practitioners in the audience were my Russian colleague and our German predecessor in the soft landing project; the biologists that we work with tend to sleep through my 2-3 talks per year but stayed alert and even asked interested sounding questions.  Very cool.

Pusher/puller stack from TOF head retrofitted with an Einzel lens, a softlanding target holder and a Channeltron (as modeled in Simion 7 ion trajectory modeling software)

After the talk and some further discussions on a couple of related items, I left work early, picked up my new spectacles, stopped by the butcher, and roasted a chicken.  The Sainsbury’s house wines are perfectly good for standard fare, and it goes well with a good read.  With Bloomsday upon me and the half-day adventure behind it seemed appropriate that there were copious quantities available.

June wines in this posting were:

Terres de Galets Cotes du Rhone
Tesco Ryan Shiraz Rose
Garland Crest Grenache Rose
Calloway Crossing Shiraz Rose
Isla Negra Cabernet Sauvignon Rose
Bodega Monte Real Malbec Shiraz
Reserve de Bonpas Cotes du Rhone
Blaxland Shiraz
Tesco Simply Rose
Wines from France Bordeaux Superieur
Edizione Sette Otto Nove Pinot Grigio
Sainsbury’s Montepulciano

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I have already blogged all the pubs I can easily run to during an extended lunch or that I can catch a bus back home from unless I make a day out of it, so the count is on hold until I do some more UK travel (which should be soon).  As an alternative, I have been doing my runs in search of some of the odd bourbons on sale here: they are true bourbons, distilled and aged in oak in Kentucky but I believe most of them are bottled in Europe as I have never heard of most of them before (and I would have).  I was tipped off that some Morrison’s branches have such a bottle but on today’s run I found only Jim Beam and a very generous collection of Scotch.  Not wishing to go back empty-handed I grabbed the house Irish and trotted out to the hilly paths home.

The stuff ain’t bad, but I was a little surprised at the peat (subtle, but definitely there despite the label stating whiskey and not whisky).  If I had noticed ‘From the summit of Slieve Na Gloc’ I would’ve sussed it as a malt but then I wouldn’t have brought it home, nor would I have stopped by Paddy’s Gym for a quick shot (photographic and fluid).

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I need to get back to the Hash, soon.  I’m even seeing hash lyrics in adverts in the local paper:

“Head? Who said, ‘head’?”

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I think they forgot the comma:

Swindon, twinned with Bukkake, Japan

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Cola in bourbon?!?  I have spent many hours of my adult life fighting this abomination and even received cease-and-desist orders from my Congressman and Senators for letters sent to them demanding introduction of legislation that would require deportation (in the case of foreigners) or Passport revocation (for citizens) that mix fine distilled spirits with sweetened soft drinks. The good will, alone, that mature folks abroad would feel toward our land would be worth the effort.

Alas, Old Samuel is fine spirit, indeed, and ENCOURAGES this ridiculous behaviour right on the label (although it is spot on with the suggestion to try it neat or on the rocks).  I can also affirm that it is a fine accompaniment to strong, black coffee and is well suited to a splash of club soda.

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Me and Betty go way back to the evening in the early 80′s she released me from the cabinet Chuck and Di kept me in; as she lifted my gimp hood and removed the bit I knew I was safe at last.

“F1,” she said enigmatically.  I responded that I’m not really a big motor sport fan; she snapped: “no, peasant…pants off and Eff One.”  Oh, I realized, this was another beast altogether.

As the weeks dragged into months we developed something of a more, if not completely, equal relationship as I taught Phil how to, finally, give this [then] septuagenarian a PROPER orgasm (using nothing more than the spittle from one of her Corgis and the narrow end of a bottle of Bombay Gin).

{I should note, these memories stem from the peak of my use of powerful psychedelics.}

My first visit to Tap and Barrel is chronicled at
http://1pumplane.wordpress.com/2011/03/07/tap-and-barrel-swindon/
.  However, if you do venture there in person, seek out Magda, six feet of eastern european heat…word-to-the-wise.

===============

Note: this was cross-posted with 100 Yellow Beers due to the absolutely ridiculous nature; sorry, but I felt like I had gotten back to the writing roots and hated to waste it on my, erm, “friends.”  Plus, someone might actually read it here.

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I didn’t go to Holland to find a new bourbon to try, but this one was cheap (in Holland), smooth, woody with hints of vanilla, and a treat to come home to at our B&B.  We siphoned off most of it in the late evening twilight Thursday and Friday, with splashes of Spa Rood. Plus, the name is just fun to say…Pennypacker!

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Nice afternoon in the Vrijtof

We planned the Netherlands trip around a Bruce Springsteen concert at PinkPop, a music festival going on during Pinkster weekend every year since 1970.  Unusually fair priced (we also saw the Hives, the Specials, Seasick Steve, and 8 other acts on our day ticket), even the food tickets were reasonable (although the food sucked…€2.50 for a beer seemed fine, though).

Maastricht is a little city in the conservative southern Dutch province of Zuid Limburg, full of students and bars and tourists largely from Belgium, Germany and the Netherlands.  When I last visited in 2001, hardly anyone spoke enough English for me to communicate (but my rudimentary German and French kept me from starving lost in town).  This trip it was hot and sunny and everyone spoke English to us as soon as we tried to use Dutch.

The Specials and some of the mostly white crowd.

On Sunday, the convention centre near our hotel had the annual Eerste Pinksterdag Vlooienmarkt (flea market) and we had a wander around since the rest of the city was locked up (save for the bars and some restaurants).  I got the clock, here, for €20; it was running a little slow but I think I got it adjusted.

Stolen web picture, but we are under the orange circle at the right

As the Specials note, though, “it’s later than you think.”  We continued to enjoy ourselves the rest of the weekend before heading back to Amsterdam for my birthday pancakes, and stashing the little pipe I brought along for this trip near the RAI Station.

This was my first overseas trip since moving to Swindon and the Advertiser publishes photos of idiots holding up a copy of the paper in foreign lands (a segment called ‘Where in the World?’).  I got in two of these but they haven’t yet been published:

In a Maastricht neighbourhood on one of many stylised donkeys

 

This finally appeared in the Advertiser at the end of summer

 

time = Bruce minus 20 minutes

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Surreal decor on the Gaasperplas Metro Lijn 53

 

From January to April 2002, I worked on my dissertation continuously in 20-30 hour shifts breaking for 5-6 hours sleep before starting another 20-30 hour shift…writing, revising/rewriting, and smoking up the last couple pounds of pot I had grown in the basement of our little ghetto house outside Athens–breaking this routine only for a hernia operation, a few therapeutic runs, discussions with my research adviser, and occasional meals.  I defended the dissertation two days after turning in the all-but-corrections final version and two days after that we boarded the plane to Amsterdam with our cat and a couple of suitcases arriving finally in the Bijlmer (pronounced BILE-murr).  My new boss had met us at Schiphol, dropped us off in a driving hailstorm commenting, “hey, weird weather, eh,” and we were left in a typical new Dutch rental: no lighting fixtures (the tenant buys and installs their own) and though called a house because it has an entrance on the street and two floors it was only as much a house as the one we shared walls with or the one upstairs (which you had to climb two flights of steep dutch stairs to reach from the front door).  We had no euros, no litter box or cat food, and no idea really where we were.

Our house had no garden but the 5 meter wide balcony extended about 15 meters over a small storage facility

Heading out into the street, I encountered the market full of Africans (mine was an almost exclusively Ghanaian and Surinamese buurt) one of whom was very drunk and urinating on the sidewalk near a couple of coppers.  I asked them (the police) where to find a cash machine and the one with the elaborate neck tattoo and the copious facial piercings told me I needed to go to Kraaienest which I found out in the ensuing interrogation is a shopping facility in the K-buurt (but I was in the G-buurt, so it would be a hike).  She said the easiest way would be to take the Metro one stop down and when I said I didn’t yet have any cash to buy my ticket the other one, an enormous and unusually tall fellow,  looked annoyed and said dismissively, “no one ever pays around here anyway…you will be fine.”  Not wishing to take the chance my first few hours in the country, I walked to Station Ganzenhoef and followed the elevated rail line through some threatening looking high-rise tenements (including a section that was hit by an El Al 747 freight transport a few years earlier killing a bunch of illegal immigrants and resulting in the urban renewal efforts that culminated in housing such as that we were then moving into), passed several especially friendly (in my — erm — limited experience) heroin and crack dealers, and noted some of the funniest graffiti I had ever seen.

Without realising it, we had moved into what was then still thought of as the most dangerous neighbourhood in the Netherlands (although it turned out to be, easily, the safest place we had lived since about ten years before we met one another) and I was instantly and absolutely in love with the place.  I still am, for that matter, so on this short visit we stayed in a B&B not ten minutes stroll away just beyond the Gouden Leeuw.

Pic from the web…nice shot of the buurt

 

We cleared Baggage Claim, Dutch Customs and Passport Control in a matter of minutes and picked up our OV-Chipkaart, the Oyster Card for the whole of Dutch public transport (replaced the Strippenkaart and is replacing the paper tickets on intercity trains) and were standing at our B&B front door an hour after landing.  It was an incredibly sunny afternoon, 30 degrees Celsius, and I just had one other duty besides walking around our old neighbourhood and going to the city centre for a coffeeshop break and some Chinese food: the pipe hunt.

The day before we left for America in 2004, I took an old clay pipe and stashed it in a memorable place and then, because I have no memory (left it all in pipes over the last 50 years) sketched out the location in a running journal.  The place that seemed most obvious was in an area protected from new construction by the need to have floodable areas to control the water.  In southernmost part of this old wooded area called the Bijlmerweide I chose a tree with three trunks, each just small enough that I could touch thumb-to-thumb and forefinger-to-forefinger whilst throttling the trunk.  The roots were rigid but separate from one another and the soil was soft enough to lodge the pipe under one of the roots pointing magnetic south by my compass.  I had hidden a pipe and a gram of hash near the Berlage monument at Victorieplein in October 2001 and picked it back up on my return in May 2002, so this should probably have worked as well.

The triple trunked tree that ate my pipe

 

Things have changed a lot but the only real disappointment on this trip turned out to be the effects of eight years growth on the hiding tree.  Each of the trunks was larger than the entire tree was before and the roots were absolutely massive.  The pipe is almost certainly now an integral part of the plants vascular system and I only hope that years from now the roots are burnt away in some area renewal effort and this item is once more revealed to the world.

Eight years ago I could have tilted the tree with this stance…the pipe is somewhere approximately under the yellow circle, and I can post directions if you really want to try to recover it.

 

We rented some bikes and headed out toward the Hoge Dijk and further afield to an area flooded this time of year as much for the agricultural benefits as the fact that it provides a brief Spring sanctuary for migratory birds.  It is very rural out that way but a head turn of no more than 60 degrees will always show the near proximity of Amsterdam, Amstelveen, or Duivendrecht.  Stopping for a beer in Abcoude was another good trip down memory lane and we returned to the B&B by following the Amsterdam-Rhine Canal then passing through the Telegraafbos (an another managed forest adjacent) then around the Bijlmer to see what has become of some of the old high-rise apartments (now mostly low houses like our old one).

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“Wine improves with age.  The older I get, the better I like it.”  ~ Anonymous, but completely appropriate as I reached my 50th birthday on May 30th.

As usual, the most recent prior set of wine notes are here: Getting a taste for it — Wines for May Part 2

Going into the final third of May we had an impending trip to see Little Steven and his backup band (some up-and-coming kid named Springsteen sings lead) and Jackie had just finished an I.T. course trying to jumpstart a relatively stagnant job search.  A mild celebration was in order and you can’t get any milder than a store brand Cava.  Sainsbury’s brand is nearly as cheap as club soda and only a little more challenging but it is quite dry and has a little flavour and you can get it on sale for less than four quid:

The next couple of days we drank some repeat wines, depleting the stock before our trip.  In Amsterdam, we got settled in our housing then returned downtown for some food in Chinatown (which I really desperately needed after a stop at the Gelderse Coffeeshop and another delay at a bar up the Zeedijk from our restaurant).  Some of the Chinatown restaurants require you pass through the kitchen to get to the seating and Nam Kee has only the most rudimentary partition–this inspired confidence in the food which was well deserved.  The hostess barely spoke English, but we were able to get a suitable red wine (Marchais Merlot) with our rudimentary Dutch:

For a country where you can still buy and use soft drugs in most of the land, the Netherlands has some funny liquor sales customs.  You can only buy it in slijterijen (bottle shops) or, at a steep mark-up, some night markets.  The slijterijen tend to open in the afternoon after a day of closure and close early almost everyday.  We let time get away from us on Saturday in Maastricht and missed out on the evening’s distilled spirits–and the slijterijen were closed until Tuesday for the Pinksteren (the Dutch celebration of the Pentecost).  We doubled back to a grocery store and scored a nice enough Cabernet.

Still booze-less on Sunday, we ordered some takeaway from a Greek restaurant–a fish platter for two that could have fed four fairly easily.  With the spices and no way to chill a white, I grabbed this very light bodied but complex Chianti before dashing back to the hotel to gorge:

Changing trains in Roermond for the trip back to Amsterdam, we stopped in the main square and chose a terrace seat at De Romein for a pile of nourishment.  I was disappointed to see the rosé wine pour up when I ordered house red but it was refreshing and complemented the meal marvelously:

 

—————House Wines——————-

The day after returning from the trip, Jackie asked if I got “thirsty” around lunchtime…you can get used to ordering a carafe of wine (or two) after a week on holiday and the house wines we had were very good if anonymous.  Here were some of those…

Happy China, Diemen: we ate here a couple of times during our original residence in Holland and famished after the long bike ride around the polders and forests decided to see how it has changed.  If anything, the place has improved with some treats like my chicken in mango sauce (and served in the mango):

Starters and…

 

…mains

 

 

Casa Pino, Amsterdam: The best thing was the wine. These guys were not Italian and they served up abominations against Italian cuisine (but as Dutch food goes, it wasn’t half bad).

The staff of Napoli, in the Markt Plein Maastricht, were Italian and the food was ever so slightly less Dutch…pasta a bit past al dente (more like al sensitive gums) and a bit gooey but the fish bits in mine were fresh and firm.

On the way to the music festival we stopped off in Heerlen and found a pizza place to take a bit of the hungry edge off.  The pies were fine, the wine better than you would have expected and dirt cheap, and the service unusually attentive for Dutch places.

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Safely home late on my birthday, we chilled a nice Chardonnay, pulled a bit of leftover pork roast from the freezer and steamed it in some fish broth until it shredded on contact, added a can of black beans and some cilantro, and made some simple and delightful wraps with the last of the tomatoes we left before the trip.  Yum.

The final third of May included these wines:

Sainsbury’s Cava
Marchais Merlot
Lindeman’s Cabernet
Antichi Borghi Chianti
Sierra Salinas
Rawnsley Chardonnay

And, a host of anonymous house wines, a liter at a time.

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Even just going to Europe you have to check in to the airport early these days, so once we dropped our luggage we had more than an hour to kill waiting for our plane.  ”Where’s the bar?” we both asked at once.  With an ale and several lagers on tap, I ordered a burger and pint special opting for Amstel to prepare myself for the trip.  An ugly open plan is counteracted by the vast seating area and surprisingly chipper bar staff (the barmaid we had chatted on for what seemed like hours about the camping trip to Zaandam she just returned from).