The NO MILK coffee bar

 

We were paying our first visit to Perran in his new residence in Brussels.

He took us to what used to be called a flea market but is now known as a vintage fair and we admired the tables laden with tat and treasures.

A heatwave was boiling up and we were wilting, but it wasn't yet time for lunch.

We spotted a cool-looking coffee bar on a crossroads, a few metal chairs and tables sheltered by parasols on the pavement.

The chalkboard offered espresso, then 'Americano - NO MILK'

'Well,' I thought to myself, 'I won't be having that then.'

Never mind - below was the option of 'a batch brew of filter coffee'.  Apparently it offered 'hints of rose and lemon.' But I was prepared to overlook that and drink some with a slurp of milk.

However, when the man came to take our order, first Nigel (who clearly cannot read chalkboards) asked for an Americano with milk.

The man refused.  Milk would ruin the fragrance. (I'm not saying 'waiter' because his irritation implied he had some skin in the game - perhaps he was the proprietor).

'It's okay, Nigel, we'll have  the filter coffee. That doesn't say 'NO MILK''

'Okay, two of those please.'

But when it arrived, there was no milk.  Nor, despite my best French, was there any milk to be had. In a Fawlty-esque tone of barely-suppressed rage, the man explained the milk would mask the hints of rose and lemon.

'And a good thing too,' I thought.

'We know how it is best for you to drink your coffee!' he finished.

Despite the atmosphere now surrounding our table, we lingered over our small cups of black coffee.  It was too expensive not to.  At least, thankfully, I could detect no rose or lemon.

We never got as far as telling the man that it was oat or soya milk we wanted, not dairy. What would have happened if we had?  Possibly he would have spontaneously combusted in a shower of blue sparks.

Leaving nothing behind except a whiff of rose and lemon.

When a hobby comes to find you

 

I’ve always had plenty of greenery in my house, but I would never have called pot plants a hobby.  They are just part of the household, and we get along fine together.  A bit like Nigel.

However, recently Perran left to live in Brussels.  Pot plants very much had been his hobby, but rules forbade the import of his green friends to Belgium. I volunteered to caretake some of his large collection until the day he returns.

His plants are different to mine.  I am ignorant of the names of most of mine as they are propagated from bits friends gave me, or kind donations from the odd stately-home conservatory (‘I tell you, that bit was just lying on the floor!’).

Perran’s darlings however have Latin names and very specific care regimes on their pots.  Also, because he had been preparing to move abroad, they had been somewhat neglected and appeared lacklustre and gloomy.

I took home ten of the fading beauties, and have been repotting and repositioning ever since.  How can a plant demand both bright light, but also not want it ‘direct’?  One plant loves nothing more than wet roots, while another should be kept Sahara-dry.

Generously, Perran has said he does not mind if not all his plants make it.  The only one he really cares about is a crassula (jade plant) which I gave him as a tiny sprout when he first left to live in London.  Through several moves and changes of job, he has nurtured this companion, and like his life, it has grown big and strong.  This is the one he most hopes will be there to greet him when he returns.   I’ll do my best.

Well, I can’t write any more now – I need to get back to my new hobby.

Never Cross a Zebra

I seem to be having a Zebra Moment.

On the news there was one single item that was not about Brexit, and it was that zebras have stripes to confuse  horseflies  – apparently the flies dislike landing on stripes.

Hmmm – you’d think that the strong smell of zebra would still be an attraction to the little insects.

However, lately, I have had a lot of zebra sightings – enough to check the research.

For instance, there's the horse in zebra’s clothing which sits at a café table in Brussels train station. Unlike an ordinary horse, he seems not to be troubled by horseflies.

(Although perhaps he has a sad expression, owing to Brexit.)

At half term in a pub in Ghent, we saw not a horse, but a bull dressed as a zebra.  (Okay, so my picture shows there was ALSO a bull dressed as a tiger, but it’s a zebra theme I’m following here.)  We also ate in a great restaurant on Zebra Street.

In neither place did horseflies ruin our repast.

Our friend John has wood-turned a bowl from zebrano – not a fly to be seen.

Then, last weekend, Carenza turned up wearing a zebra-print jacket.

 

I checked behind her, but there were no horseflies in pursuit, so the research must be correct.

I admit, I doubted the findings, but my own extensive research conclusively proves they are water-tight.

And okay - I can't completely avoid Brexit.  PLEASE SIGN THE PETITION : -

https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/241584