Here at Rimberlieu we are nearly in Belgium; the border is only an hour or so to the north. This part of France, Picardy, shares much with its northern neighbour, including a beer-drinking tradition. Epiceries sell beer in litre bottles, and it’s a litre of beer that workmen drink with their midday meal, not wine. In Australia I’d never associated brussels sprouts with the Belgian capital but at Compiègne’s wintry market they are plentiful and cheap, a seasonal staple. Strangely, I don’t remember ever seeing them in Pézenas. Pearly white witlof, which the French call endive, is also of Belgian origin. It’s new to me, but the crunchy, yellow-tipped leaves with an intriguing contrast of sweetness and bitterness become the basis of our winter salads.
Despite its proximity, we might never have visited Belgium were it not for an invitation from Chris, John’s old IBM colleague. Chris is moving back to Sydney to open an office for another computer firm but before he leaves he invites John to the opening of their Brussels office at the beginning of March. It’s so close we can hardly refuse, especially when it promises the novelty of a different country.
The Hay plain is flat, but Belgium is flatter. It is also considerably more populated. Every square metre of land is settled or cultivated. There are no woods or forests, no wildernesses, no secluded picnic spots beneath the trees off a dusty lane. It is often more reminiscent of England than of France, especially in the north, the Flemish-speaking part of the country where English is almost an alternative language. In Ghent and Bruges, as in England, people ride bicycles everywhere, and ads for Watney’s and Double Diamond Pale Ale are plastered on walls. With their white and brown loaves, square or high top, their currant buns and raisin loaves, bakeries in Bruges could almost be mistaken for their English cousins.
I expected Belgium to be more like an extension of France, more like this northern region of Picardy where we live. And it is—but only in the French-speaking part and in bilingual Brussels. Brussels is an elegant, sophisticated city and we arrive early enough to wander around its Grand-Place and to make the pilgrimage to the popular statue of the boy playfully weeing into the pond, the Mannekin-Pis. After John returns from the reception we leave the hotel and find a nearby bar for a glass of wine. All around I hear familiar French sounds, the rhythm of a language that carries a sense of home. In Brussels I have little awareness of being in a foreign country.
Once again, I’m reminded how culture is related to language, how linguistic boundaries are also cultural boundaries and how intrinsic to culture is food. The north and the south of France could be separate nations, each lacking in understanding of the other. Jean-Pierre won’t eat eggs cooked in butter, and the neighbours of Australian friends, diehard Parisians who have never ventured as far south as Provence, look suspiciously at the anchoïade croutons I offer them when they’re invited for drinks one afternoon. It’s unimaginable to me that they have never heard of this savoury paste of anchovies, garlic and olive oil. Only later do I realise that they might be wary of a food they don’t recognise, especially when it’s murky grey in colour and distinctly oily, even more especially when it’s been made by foreigners. Goûtez l’anchoïade, I encourage them. Timidly, so as not to appear impolite, they take a bite. Only when I reassure them that it’s patriotically French, a speciality of Provence, do they start to enjoy it. It’s ironic that it should be an Australian who introduces them to anchoïade.