Nick was a tall and good looking Russian working in Brussels, Belgium. He and his wife Jenny lived in a tiny one bedroom apartment. When Dore and I arrived at their home they pulled out all the stops, serving us delicacies like blood sausages and liverwurst with lots and lots of vodka. Nick laughed heartily when he saw us politely nibbling on the edge of a piece of headcheese. He did not hesitate to tell us that part of it was made from a hog’s head.
I’ve never drunk so much and eaten so little. When “dinner” was done they wanted to show us the pubs. I waddled out into the cold with them. It was early November, 2002. Surprisingly, the vodka seemed to have an effect on keeping me warm.
At the pub, Nick explained all the different kinds of beer they have in Belgium.
“Oder this,” he pointed to one item on the menu, “It’s made out of berries. It’s sweet.”
A sweet beer? So it was, and I gulped it down like sugar water. I took sips of the dark brew and light brew that my company were sampling. Might as well.
Brussels was more enchanting and fairytale-like when they finally decided to go home. I rolled onto their pull-out bed and was fast asleep immediately.
The next morning, Dore told me he did not do so good. In fact, his stomach was queasy all night and he hardly slept.
“Why?”
“The taste of the hog head and the blood sausages is still in my mouth.” For someone whose food group did not include pork it was quite an initiation.
