I went to Waterloo (I was defeated, you won the war) yesterday, and played on a swing. It was without doubt the highlight of my week.
Other waterloo highlights were the fun times at the local supermarket, delicious Waterloo Tripel in distinguished ceramic glass, and finally ending the minutes of tension between the Flemish and Neapolitan armies.
For the past six months or so I’ve been cautiously walking past at brisk speeds to ignore Hilde Devolder’s chocolate shop, out of fear of enjoying her products to a point that I’d become a daily customer.
Whilst walking my dear Neapolitan friend through the charming streets of Ghent, Hilde’s shop jumped from behind a parked bike, and my game was up. We had no choice but to venture inside.
Hilde specializes in tiny boxes of even tinier chocolates, each piece measuring no more than a square centimeter. These tiny sizes mean equally tiny amounts of guilt, which can lead to an entire box consumed in minutes, instead of the typical hour or so chocolate giants like Neuhaus or Godiva command.
Highlights from the first box include the peanut brittle, marzipan, and whatever that last one I had (especially biscuity in a way a biscuit could never have been).
For easter Hilde has prepared a large variety of amazing creations, some of which I may try to export back to some lucky non-blog-reading parents come Easter time.
Hilde presents an amazing challenge to the Belgian chocolate industry – her choice of tiny chocolates makes sharing a joy, and stopping consumption all the harder!
Neuhaus, consider yourself warned!
5.2% Jupiler in an alcohol-free Jupiler glass.
They don’t get more Belgian Badass than this. With every glass of sneaky pintje, the chance of deportation only grows.
Don’t tell the feds!
The past three days we’ve had the pleasure of hosting a dear Napolitana girl, who we have been corrupting with Belgian beers, stews and other assorted customs.
Several years ago she hosted us in her home town, where I was so overwhelmed with southern Italian hospitality it took me some months to recover.
This time however, she introduced me to the term Pusteggia, a particularly Neapolitan verb with a very Neapolitan meaning:
To be stuck in traffic with your friends (always of the same sex) and use this time to attempt to entice cars full of members of the other sex, with little to no chance of anything ever eventuating
Pusteggia can last an entire evening, and is best practiced on weekends, though can just as easily occur on weekdays