If it's Thursday, it must be Rotterdam...

My farewell tour of Europe (as someone rudely referred to it) continues with a relatively spontaneous lunch at Crème Crue in Rijswijk, a quaint little suburb of Rotterdam. New to the block, it lacks a menu. Instead, it offers a choice of 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and even I believe 7 courses for dinner. Lunch is a more sedate affair with the choice of 2 or 3 courses. Naturally, it is the chef who will decide what you will eat. As a firm believer in supporting professionals at what they do best, I wait for the food to make an appearance.


The amuse bouche involves smoked eel, a frozen cube of bitter lemon and duindoorn berries arrayed rather fetchingly in a martini glass. A wispy sigh of pleasure escapes me. This can only get better, and I am not wrong in my assessment. Our starter arrives. Goose liver with red beetroot (some cunningly smoked while others more innocuously roasted) drizzled with pure chocolate. I'm not a huge beet fan, but let me tell you, smoked beetroots... they're just boss!

The main course is poached halibut with slivers of scallops (a much reviled fish in ordinary kitchens that submits well to a masterly chef) with curried cauliflower puree, trompette mushrooms, and the oddly pretty looking green cacti flower that tastes of cauliflower, gently napped by an apple cider sauce. Divine and I restrain the urge to lick my plate.

The palate cleanser (or pre-dessert as it's referred to) makes me clap with glee... the glass is angled precariously, filled to the tilt by three distinct shades of green, the middle bit sparkling like jewels. A piece I would be happy to display in any suitable nook. Ice cold soup of pineapple with a lukewarm sabayon of tarragon. Reluctantly, I tip the glass towards my lips and smother the giggle that threatens to escape at the startling combination of textures and temperatures that invade my mouth. It's on the cutting edge of avant garde and I debate it's merit as a sculpture over those of a pre-dessert.

Now, the time for debate. Dessert is an eclectically named elastic of chocolate, and I ask if I can have something savory instead. Cheese is offered and rebutted instantly given the look of disappointment on my face. Is there anything particular I had in mind? Just starter like in temperament... I'm happy with any leftovers from the kitchen the chef is willing to put together. The legal dessert arrives and is exquisite. The strip of chocolate is touchingly elastic, and I almost wish I'd asked for it.... apparently the coconut and Mandarin blobs do it grave justice. JP kindly leaves a bit for me to savour at the end.

The chef sends out his rendition of a savory something to end the meal..... sweetbreads with truffle, pear, hazelnuts and celery. I smile winningly, suppressing my inward shudder at the imagery the word celery conjures up, and inhale the rich aroma. Mhmmmm. My palate is shocked with what seems to be celery heart. Not only does it not have its customary icky smell, the texture is firm and reminds me of palm hearts and pairs astonishingly beautifully with the veal innards. Bliss.

I end my repast with the last bite of elastic chocolate before giving in to a cup of orange pekoe and chocolate covered apple petit fours. Crème Crue might have an unexpected 'e', but the chef and his entourage know how to entertain with panache. My request to get the menu written down results in a crisp letter head being produced at the end of the meal (once everyone knew what I would be getting in lieu of dessert) and I quote:

Soepje van duindoornbesen, waterijs van bitterlemon schuim gerookte paling

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Terrine van ganzenlever met rode biet en pure chocolade

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Heilbotfilet en coquille met bloemkool en een saus van appelcider

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Predessert, ijskoud soepje van ananas met lauwwarme sabayon van dragon

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Elastiek van chocolade met kokos en drie bereindingen van mandarijn

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Gelakte kalfszwezerik met truffel, peer, hazelnoot en knolselderij

*******

Crème Crue, Haagweg 114, 2282 AG Rijswijk

T: 070 365 1080; www.cremecrue.nl

Chef: Patrick Kelder

Panorama

Rotterdam is freezing, windy and wet, and while I like surprises, I'm dearly hoping the pre-lunch one will be indoors and warm. The Dutchman's odd explanation of travelling exhibition at my curiosity doesn't really get the juices flowing, but I accuse him of being totally Indian when he agrees to my suggestion of leaving the car with the valet at the Hilton as we pretend to partake of something necessary in their haloed premises while sneaking out the back door, after two failed attempts to snare parking. The valet smilingly takes the car and we pretend business before edging out the side door for a quick dash in the rain. JP has to drag me back as I hurl past the door and I'm confused as we enter into a small building called Panorama. We seem to be in a gallery. Ok, Dutch painters, I can do this. I'm reminded of the sunset in Budapest a few days ago and the magic yellow blue combination of the sky, which then, had made me think of the light and colours in so many Dutch canvasses. You have to be able to see a sky that colour to paint it.

It's the aptly entitled Panorama that's the surprise, and without much ado, we head straight for the piece de resistance. I walk into the room and am gobsmacked. I mean, quite literally, my gob is well and truly smacked and falls open in awe and wonderment. I'm standing on a shaded deck atop a sand dune. A sand dune littered with anchors, fishing nets, lost boot as dunes are wont to be. A 360 degree turn absorbs the city behind us and the open sea in front of us. Scheveningen in 1881. I continue to gape as I rotate again. Then once more for good measure, this time more slowly, taking in the details of the church spire in the distance, the woman hanging up her washing outside her home, the beached fishing boats, the rolling waves, the horizon receding into the distance. I swear, I can smell the sea, hear it. The shrieking gulls give way to commentary in Dutch. Unsurprisingly, my body is drawn seaward, and I leave the town behind me as I savour the open breeze and endless horizon. The experience is surreal. The painting magnificent. The hidden glass dome that sits astride the roof allows in natural light, which brings this behemoth to life. Everyday, it's a different day at the beach, given the season and the weather. It's uncanny, but this 14 m tall, 120 m canvass wrapped around you at a distance of 14 m away, makes you feel like you're standing outside, surveying life in the 1880's.

Hendrik Willem Mesdag painted it with assistance from his wife Sientje Mesdag-van Houten and 4 other painters in 4 months. How, I do not know. It's alive and makes you want to sit down by the seaside, have a drink and get philosophical about life as one does when faced with nature in her purest form. The crying gulls meld into the sound of the waves as the English commentary tells me that the panorama was sketched on a glass cylinder that was then lit from within and this is what was used to trace the massive pieces of canvas surrounding us. Ingenious, but just imagining them actually executing the piece leaves me breathless. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall, to watch them at work, the sketch thrown all around, bits of paint filled in, perspectives checked and double checked. It's a masterpiece. I have seen photographic panoramas before and been somewhat impressed, but this just takes your breath away. It has the depth and dimension you can only get from paint and canvass and the texture makes it more gritty, more real. You forget it's bitterly cold and wet outside and wallow in the bracing air of the sea instead, the pace slower, more relaxed as you unwind and let nature soothe you. Your thoughts wafting around your head as you contemplate the horizon in the far distance.

It's startling when one of the guides steps over the rail to walk the 14 m to the canvas, destroying the illusion... it makes you cross to have the magic vanish, but oddly enough, a few minutes later as your gazing out, the artists mastery over depth and perspective sweeps over you and the beach stretches for miles ahead, the waves rolling into the far distance. It's truly uncanny how they manage to create such a strong sense of the real in such a confined area, munificent size of the painting notwithstanding. True to the art form, the top and bottom of the paintings are hidden to perpetuate the illusion of not having any boundaries

I've never really thought of Rotterdam as place to have on my list to visit... but I stand corrected. Eventually, I let JP tear me away so we can go for lunch (the original plan!), and make a mental note to visit in the summer to do a repeat... different light, different ingredients (lunch...!) and a quick abseil down the tower. This city rocks! Our sneaky side door entrance goes unnoticed and we claim our car with panache, sans payment. Such lovely people, these Dutch....

Ladies who lunch

The ladies who lunch do their last farewell lunch together in style at the Gokart Gallery on Andrassy Ut. It's sentimental, but fitting as we are ushered to our table overlooked by the piano and framed canvases on the walls. An elegant lunch later, we can but only pander ourselves with a sampling of delicious pastries. Yet, another thing that I will miss... Hungarians do make the best pastries... notwithstanding the French or Viennese (the Swiss still have my vote on the bread, but that's just nostalgia talking). Much deliberation and consultation leads us to a tonka bean tart and a chocolate mousse pastry to be indulged in mutually. What arrives are two superb little creations, delicately pastry sized, light as air, dark as sin and as shuddering as an orgasm. Each bite drawn out to savour the experience to the fullest, all senses engaged as we diligently demolish the pastries between soft little moans. The tonka bean tart has a fragrance that is so familiar but eludes me just the same, like a teasing scent left behind by a lover. I have a lingering memory of the same scent in a Viennese concoction involving chocolate at a coffee house... . My Hungarian won't touch the berry topping the tart because it's hairy - luckily, I have no qualms about gnawing on things hairy, and it's the perfect counterpoint to the delicate flavour of the tart. We demand to know what a tonka bean is, and the maitre d' tries his best to explain that it's South American in origin, a cross between caffeine and chocolate. Clearly, our dubious glances affront his professional demeanour and he returns with a small plate of samples. They look like large sunflower seeds with a wrinkly skin, almond shaped and black. Snapping one open yields a lighter shade of mocha and that waft... of vanilla. Apparently, this innocuous little bean is used in making perfumes but it's greater claim to fame seems to be that it is banned by the erstwhile FDA as consumption in large doses destroys ones liver, and Americans are urged not to buy Vanilla extracts from Mexico as they have the rather rude habit of using tonka beans instead of vanilla to sell the same effect.

Tch tch. What could they have been thinking?! Death by chocolate?

To the Monster Ball

She might written off as a bright yellow haired, bare assed, weird plastic outfit wearing freak, but to me, she is one talented musician, with an amazing voice and incredible energy and charisma that sweeps across the venue who makes freaky music videos. The woman rocks. I'm taken aback by the number of young girls with no more than single digits to their credit. My mother never took to me to see a cutting edge concert....au contraire,I got taken to the ENT the day before to check if the blaring sounds of the band would cause any further harm to my struggling ears and was advised by the doddering old codger in the white coat to carry cotton wool in the pockets of my "frock" to stick in my ears if the cacophony got too much!!

She's been pulverized by the press for her disturbing images of bondage, blood and gore, but I have to admit, one's feral side is strongly aroused by the gleaming wetness of blood. Not sure what the 7-12 year olds sharing the space with yours truly will grow up into, but its not the devil of rock and roll, but the sight of sight of wetly gleaming blood that spikes my libido.... Cause for concern? Or should I be more worried that it's the sight of human blood that's making me feral?! The crowd swoons over the opening bars of Angelo (her most pathetic offereing and reminds me of a similar reaction brought on by Elton's pathetic Sacarifiiiice.. - honestly, what is wrong with people?!?!), and I wonder how the sound of ripping throats might enliven the performance. I'm charmed by her funky double bass and Jerry Lee Lewis eat your heart our performance on the flaming piano. Blondies got cojones and is totally weird with the blood smeared on her throat and chest, but the encore completes the night with a heart thumping Bad Romance.

I'm pretty sure that its the combination of wetly glistening blood and thumpa thumpa music (or could it be the evocative imagery?) that leaves me ravenous.... Hmmm. Methinks Dracula was just very misunderstood....

Village life Magyar style

Finally, the day of my visit to the Hungarian countryside dawns and we set off for Fertoszintmiklos to lunch with Ishtvans parents, his dogs, cats and rabbits. I'm given a quick snapshot of the community: 3,500 residents, 1 church, 1 school, 1 pub and 2 whorehouses. Hmmmm. Interesting?! I arrive to a warm welcome from Maria and Ishtvan senior and am captivated by their Puli (a Hungarian breed, much reminiscent of a Rastafarian rug put in the wash one time too many!), a white one, who has the best dreadlocks I've ever seen and I can't resist rummaging through his coat, tugging wily nily at the matted strands. A walking, unravelled rug! My raucous bonding with the carpet is interrupted as I'm taken around the backyard and introduced to the other cats and then to the rabbits, Susan & George (in Hungarian naturally, but my keyboard won't cooperate). Susan and George look like small dogs and are definitely not the sort of bunnies you'd like to meet after dark. Timid they might be, but their size is so formidable, I'm not even thinking lunch!

There's time for a quick tour of the village before lunch, and I check out the vineyards, the graveyard (a tad disconcerting to come across tombstones with a date of birth and no date of death!! Talk about early reservations..) and awww at the quaint little chapel across the whorehouse. Naturally, I think it's a fitness club, catchily called X-Itness and can't understand Ishtvan's rather rude description of the lady going in as 'whore'! I look at him wonderingly and he explains she's probably from Ukraine. Yeah so? My confusion gets through to him and he informs me that X-itness is the other whorehouse in the village. I gasp like a giddy schoolgirl. No way!! I thought that was a fitness club! Apparently, so did he when he went to get membership the first time...! Once I'm drying my tears at that conversation, I notice a sign on the building next door for 'exercise'. Apparently, that's the legitimate exercise studio, very handily situated right next to the building with 'Wellness' and 'Xitness' painted all over the front. These village Hungarians I tell you! Lots of Austrians moving here and the border being 10 km away doesn't divert suspicion....

We go home so I can gush over and smush Oxford Circus the newest addition to the household who is allowed indoors for the express purpose of our amusement. Lunch is served, and I'm beginning to think they might be Bengali's in disguise. I ask if this is customary or if it's been laid on to impress the Indian... Nope, just Sunday lunch it seems. Right.... the soup starts us off, and then the dishes keep coming. Schnitzel, fried chicken, uborka salad, creamed mushrooms, fried potatoes, chicken baked with bacon, cheese, fennel and carrots and rice. I'm urged to eat everything but leave room for dessert. I can tell this is going to be an exhausting afternoon. The uborka salad is yummy and simple enough for me to make (incidentally, that is one of the politer words I acquired on day 1. Uborka = cucumber) and goes astonishingly well with all the meats. I dutifully sample everything and gorge on the schnitzel, and then we adjourn for dessert. Marie has outdone her self with a humongous dish of tiramisu, homemade ischlers and a hazelnut Swiss roll type thingy. There's enough for twenty, but an hour and several albums of Ishtvan as a strange child with a chicken fetish later, we've managed to empty half the dish.

It's time to go, but not without leftovers! I try to be as ladylike as possible (helped by a 14 week pregnant belly) and confine myself to the baked chicken, uborka salad and a quarter of the tiramisu. We will be eating for days... (and little did I know the tiramisu would only get better day after day... would've taken the other quarter as well!). Since I am well versed with my limitations, I shall only tell you the tiramisu was a drool worthy masterpiece, and shall confine myself to an attempt at re-creating the uborka salad for warm days in Singapore.

Uborka Salad
Ingredients
Cucumber (thinly sliced) * water * vinegar * garlic (finely chopped) * salt * sugar

Method
Hungarian kids have the job of making Uborka, so it clearly has no method! Salt the cucumber and keep aside. Start with cold water and add little bits of vinegar to it along with bits of sugar, stirring and tasting till it gets to that point where you go, 'mhmmmmm'. Add the chopped garlic to this. Once the waterworks is done, squeeze the salt out of the cucumber and add. Refrigerate till you're ready to serve.

It's delicious, cool, perfect for the summer and a shockingly good accompaniment to hot meat dishes like the baked chicken, fried chicken and wiener schnitzel. This is what the Hungarians call, vegetable.

Hajra Volan

My excitement knows no bounds! My first ice hockey match, one that I've specially flown in for.... not quite sure an afternoon mastering shockingly rude Hungarian words that involve parts of female anatomy moderated by the makings of lunch was the most appropriate way to psych myself for what I was desperately hoping would be a blood fest. Still, my education did include a few tips about the offside rule and armed with the knowledge that there are 3 thirds, gloves and jacket, we're off to Sekesfehervar to watch Alba Volan in action against the Graz 99ers. We fuss over our seats like persnickety old ladies, but are justifiably smug when every goal happens in our half of the rink and at a closing score of 4-3, that's a lot of goals!

This is the B team, and their pace leaves my breathless and ready to trade death to be able to skate as fluidly furiously as they do. My envy is a tad misplaced given a childhood in the tropics, but just watching them zip past is exhilarating. The pucks start flying, and I feel even more instant gratification, and don't even realise my hands are rubbing themselves together in glee. The whistle blows and we're off... and it's not till Ishtvan points out the swap and explains that because the game is so intense (oh yeah, baby!), that the players can come off and swap at any time they're tired, usually after 5-7 minutes of play, even less. I'll be damned! Another game where the players jump in and out of the fray while the game is in progress. Apparently, each team can have between 15-20 players, and at any given time, there's 7 on the ice, including the goalie and they can tag the others in the box when they're out of breath.... which at that blistering pace doesn't take very long. The home team has brought their band, and the thumping of the drum leads the chanting and rabble rousing cries of Hajra Volan! (Go Volan! to the rest of us..)

Naturally, the first time four of them collide into each other, and slam against the protective Plexiglas, making the cameraman and everyone in the front row flinch reflexively, I squeal with excitement.. the lack of blood spatter does little to diminish my pleasure at the savagery of the game and I bemoan my pointless youth in a warm country. Now this, this is a sport!!! It also makes you wonder, just how fast and brutal the pro league actually is - the NHL an the likes of Russia, Sweden, USA and Canada out for big bucks and national pride. Something to watch out for! While Ishtvan is displeased with the new Hungarian goalie who lets the Austrians slam in not just the equaliser but also go a goal ahead and bemoans the lack of pace, I'm thrilled to be in such a small stadium where you're on top of the players feeling every bone thunk and crunch, the thwack of the puck, the zinging through the air and crashing against the Plexiglas, the ice flying like shrapnel as the blades slice into a turn.

The last 10 minutes or so brings on another revelation and I watch in horror as the goalie saws off to the box, leaving the goal barren... What the fuck?!?! Apparently, standard tactic during the dying minutes for an all out offensive. Replace the goalie with a forward in a last minute attempt to annihilate the opposition. Whoa baby! Do these boys have the right attitude or what?! Although, given the beating the goalie gets, I'm not surprised he left the party early! Unfortunately, we didn't see any more goals or any blood at all and while it's a pity we lost, the adrenalin rush stayed and I had to be cautioned against too much joy and cheesy grin accompanied applause as the game ends. Naturally, I now have a souvenir t-shirt and several extra calories for want of any better way to splurge my excess energy....

Hajra Volan!

All things weird and wonderful....

or so I'd like to think.... even though it does make me wonder why I'm now suddenly being plagued by a series of bizarre moments...beginning with my short lived joy at having found a place to stay. Taks' benevolent 'mi casa es su casa' over hugs as he left for Columbia was apparently a limited instruction, as the one additional house guest (I had bedroom privileges) turned into two much to my consternation. The next day I return home to an open door, and even before my upward tilt verifying the 27 atop the door is complete, my brain has to grapple with the sight of a strange woman bearing down on me... 'You must be Apara', she smiles warmly... 'I must...' I falter weakly. It turns out to be upstairs neighbour and husband, deeply perturbed about the missing Internet access. It takes my growling stomach several minutes to comprehend that the crows in the study, spilling over into the kitchen is trying valiantly to restore said lost connection, although I am somewhat stymied by the assumption that I might have the missing answer. I still haven't quite understood why the upstairs neighbours were downstairs, but my stomach loudly insisted that it didn't really care.

Weird got weirder with several rather cryptic messages... comments left on this very blog. One of them in Cyrillic, the other longer than the post by several paragraphs, responding most inappropriately to my post on American absurdity in the news with stinging commentary on Obama's health care fiasco, with a threatening sign off.... more to come! Why would anyone want to spam a blog? What is going on??

A stray newspaper on the bus catches my eye, and I'm captivating by what I shall call a personal ad?
"Male and Ticklish? Earn £100+ p/h. Genuinely ticklish guys 18-40 for taking part in project where your ticklishness is tested. No nudity required. Cash £££."
Sadly, my junk just ain't good enough to research the matter further, and I just leave myself to much speculation on the sort of project that might entail such a request, for the remainder of my bus ride. I have to admit, I'm also wondering at the mechanics... £100 an hour? To be 'tickled' for an entire hour? or longer? or do they do it in short bursts? Siiigh. So many questions, and nary an answer in sight...

My weird week continues at my flat share, my attempts to rummage through the fridge for dinner rudely interrupted by the sight of tub upon tub of Flora. When I'd left that morning, I could have sworn, there were just 2 tubs. One of the cholesterol combating Flora and the other of the vile tasting Olive oil spread... I blink but they don't vanish. I shut the fridge. Frown. Open the fridge. The entire top shelf is neatly stacked with tubs of spread. Double layered. I did notice House guest/flat mate 1 and surprise house guest/flat mate 2 eating bread, but surely, surely, 14 tubs of Flora isn't really required to butter however lavishly a couple of dozen croissants?? Maybe they went for the tickle project instead of their training course??