Brussels Minus the Sprouts
Apr 22, 2022 22:20:00 GMT -5
Marcus Welsh, Dylan Thomas, and 1 more like this
Post by Dangerous Dan on Apr 22, 2022 22:20:00 GMT -5
I’ve requested to sit on the upper floor, a table for one. The stained-glass windows over the crowded cobblestone streets below provide a lovely backdrop. Yeah, I know, here we go again with another looking through the window story. I’m beginning to think I should be the new Alice with a looking glass. I’m sure everyone in the locker room will have something to say about this won’t they?
Anyways, I order the mussels with white wine, mussels with cream, with garlic. One by one, the dishes arrive. When the waiter asks if I would like the fries I say, “Of course I would—along with the fish croquettes.” Then I add, “S’il vous plait.” I also order the soup of the day, which is onion. Then 50 cl of the Brugs Blanche, and the Grimbergen Brune, a glass of Duvel. The restaurant is tucked along the Rue des Bouchers. It’s been in existence since 1892.
My waiter brings me a basket of warm baguettes. I already have my camera in hand. I snap a picture of the mussels. I snap another of the beer glasses, capture the wetness of the condensation. I focus in on the golden amber color of the drink. Focus in on the croquettes. Snap, with flash.
Before long, an hour has passed. I am almost satisfied. The light has changed ever so slightly but in my favor. And only when the waiter arrives is the spell finally broken. “Is everything okay?” the young man says, unable to hide the concerned smile that passes over his face. I snap a final picture.
“Oh, yes. I’m about done here.”
“But Sir, you haven’t eaten a single bite.”
"Take it away, garçon. Merci beaucoup.”
I know I should be focusing on more of wrestling and the OCW, but I must enjoy life as much as I can. Chris likes to hang by himself more now, but I certainly like taking exotic trips and exploring their food. After all, the payout from winning the tag team titles have helped with the trips. I love to photograph food. But these days, anyone can call themselves a photographer—let alone a food photographer.
I’ve decided before heading to Australia for Technical Difficulties that I would explore Brussels, minus the sprouts. Chris volunteered to babysit Elias for me while I made this exotic trip. Now the four-hundred-year-old Gothic buildings of gilded gold stare back at me like a brilliant garrison. There is the Hotel de Ville. There is the King’s House. I consider taking a few more photographs. I might send them to friends, some of whom I haven’t spoken to in years, but would be glad to hear from.
As one might expect, all around me, people are already taking their own photos. There are hordes of tourists; they prevent me from capturing that perfect shot, the money shot. Everyone has their cameras out. I can’t help but cringe. I see un-proportioned selfies. Photos that lack composition, a sense of symmetry. Even focus. All they seem to want is something Instagram-worthy, perhaps something that might go viral. It sounds all too much like a disease without a cure. Kind of reminds me of the Dravers Twins. Needless to say, I’m after something that will last a little longer, that might stand the test of time.
I sit for an espresso at one of the cafes; I have to catch my breath. Beside me, I notice the couple trying to take a picture of the macarons on their plate. Pink, chocolate, pistachio. I shudder at the thought of the lighting; there is too much shadow, too much obscured in favor of the obvious, the trendy, though neither of them seems to notice nor care. There like a couple of “lost strangers” trying to find some kind of meaning or purpose. Hey, got to get those puns in somehow, right?
When they turn to me, I look away. I don’t mean to stare. “Excuse me,” the young man with the baseball cap says. “Can you take our picture?”
I think, of course I can—as in, I certainly know how. But it also crosses my mind that I might tell them what I do for a living, I do have several jobs to help with the bills, and that I usually charge, a lot.
Nevertheless, I take the phone. I say, “On the count of three.” When I reach three, they both say, “Cheeeese.”
But I must admit, it is a beautiful time of year in Brussels. I visit the Saint-Michel Cathedral, the grounds of the Place Royale. All the bright and blurred lights recede and fade into a kind of dream-state. And these are the instances when I might think of someone who I’d like to share the moment with. I’ll think of Jasper. It doesn’t matter that we’ve been broken up for years. In fact, he has a family of his own now, a husband, kids. But he had once been a large part of my life—and still is, to some extent. That is, we’ve remained friends. Good friends. Not everyone can say that about their exes. There are times when we still meet each other for dinner. Jasper fancies himself a kind of connoisseur. He will know all the best restaurants for steak. Where to get the best Peking duck. Ethiopian is his go to cuisine when he’s looking to impress his colleagues (he is a professor of linguistics). I simply take the pictures.
When I show Jasper my photographs, he will say to me, “It’s as if I can taste each page, Dan.” And then, “I’ve always loved your photos.”
At times, it’s the best compliment a person can ask for. “Why thank you. I do it without the use of filters. I don’t use Photoshop, little to no airbrush.”
“You don’t say.”
I still don’t think that he knows exactly what I mean, but I let it go, like so many things I’ve let go by the wayside, in order to avoid the pitfalls of bitterness.
Afterward, I am at the Galeries Royales Saint-Hubert. I photograph the chocolates in the shops. The pieces are delicately shaped, made by hand, and I long to capture their intricate and dainty details. One of the salespeople sees me. She asks if I would like to try a piece. At first, I say no. But she insists. “Why not just one? Or two?” I don’t want to seem rude. Instantly and surprisingly, I taste the sweetness of the chocolate melting in my mouth.
The next thing I know, I am sitting down for a cup of hot chocolate. Let me just say, I am no chocoholic. But it is supposed to be one of the best in the city, according to the same salesperson. I can see from her nametag that her name is Odette. Something forgettable about her name, much like how I forget that the Dravers Twins are even a part of the OCW roster. Furthermore, it would do me some good to warm up. My fingers have become reddened and numb, and I am losing my grip—on my camera, that is. But by the time I am done taking pictures of the hot chocolate, the drink has already gone cold. I leave it be. It is, after all, one of the pitfalls of the job. That’s part of the reason that The Lost Soul and I barely cross paths anymore. He’s a cold-hearted bastard who only cares for himself, am I right?
These, I suppose, are some of the misconceptions about food photography. For instance, the idea that I’ll get to eat all that I photograph. One might think that it’s a perk. But of course, there is so much that I’ll have to do to a dish in order to keep it photogenic. I use wet paper towels over bread to keep it moist. I use a makeup sponge to add height to a burger. The moment I finish capturing a hamburger, the bun will have begun to dent and dry out. The blood of the meat will bleed all over the plate as it relaxes, so time will be of the essence. The lettuce will inevitably wilt. Needless to say, rarely can I indulge. I consider myself a consummate professional. And I am of the belief that the hallmark of true professionalism is knowing when to refrain, when to hold back. Therefore, I hold back. C’est la vie.
“Just because I held back on photos doesn’t mean I’m going to hold back at Technical Difficulties. You see, Chris and I must defend our tag titles in a match that is seemingly similar to our very own Danger Zone match. An Outback Escape Match…
I get we started a trend, but someone is taking our stipulations to all new levels. Trapped in a maze in the outback? Not only that, but we have to FIND our tag titles and escape the outback maze with them? Guess someone likes copying other people’s ideas, eh?
It doesn’t matter, cause the outcome is going to be the same. Just like we did in the Danger Zone match, we’re going to grab the titles and exit the outback maze with the gold still in our possession. We didn’t come back to OCW to win these titles for a measly two months. No, we came back to keep these titles indefinitely…
We’ve already beaten the Dravers Twins, but we’ll gladly do it again. The Lost Stranger and the Danger Boiz are no strangers, pun intended, in that ring. We go back to GCWA days where we were on the same team and side at one point. However, you and your mystery partner are not going to take what is ours. We’ve worked too hard and too long to win these titles. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some freaks escape the maze with OUR championships…
If by some chance another team happens to walk out with these titles, just know that you didn’t actually BEAT us to win them. You walked out of a maze. But we won’t have to worry about that because these titles are staying with the Danger Boiz. I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure these belts remain on our shoulders.”
It is the dawn of a new day. From the window of my hotel room, I can see the decorative roofs of the Art Nouveau buildings. Though the sun rises later this time of year in Belgium, it has finally begun to come out.
I have breakfast at a bakery near my hotel. Café au lait, an almond croissant. Of course, I take photos of them both. Today, I have a bit of a headache. The wine from the previous night is still getting to me. I’m a little hungover.
In addition, I have my health to consider. Just this morning, I fell in the bathroom. The floor had been wet. It wasn’t a nasty fall. There were no broken bones, no sprains. But it only further confirmed for me some of the limitations of my own body. I think of how it’s taken a great deal of effort for me to make it to Brussels. I had flown a red eye from Tennessee. The point is that I’m not exactly a spring chicken anymore. But I still beat the best inside of the squared circle any day of the week. Nevertheless, there are actually more things in life to savor. All I need is my camera and a bit of good lighting. The rest, as they say, is gravy.
"Don’t take my admitting that I’m no spring chicken as me trying to back out of the match. I know when it comes to certain things that my body doesn’t have what it takes. But, when it comes to fighting in a ring, I put my body through anything and everything to pick up the win…
We may not be fighting in a ring, but at Technical Difficulties, when Chris and I walk into the Outback maze, we’re going to get to our titles and exit the maze to secure our victory. The Danger Boiz are here to stay and there isn’t any person, team or match that keep us down. Get ready fellas, the ENDD is near! Can you feel it?”
Anyways, I order the mussels with white wine, mussels with cream, with garlic. One by one, the dishes arrive. When the waiter asks if I would like the fries I say, “Of course I would—along with the fish croquettes.” Then I add, “S’il vous plait.” I also order the soup of the day, which is onion. Then 50 cl of the Brugs Blanche, and the Grimbergen Brune, a glass of Duvel. The restaurant is tucked along the Rue des Bouchers. It’s been in existence since 1892.
My waiter brings me a basket of warm baguettes. I already have my camera in hand. I snap a picture of the mussels. I snap another of the beer glasses, capture the wetness of the condensation. I focus in on the golden amber color of the drink. Focus in on the croquettes. Snap, with flash.
Before long, an hour has passed. I am almost satisfied. The light has changed ever so slightly but in my favor. And only when the waiter arrives is the spell finally broken. “Is everything okay?” the young man says, unable to hide the concerned smile that passes over his face. I snap a final picture.
“Oh, yes. I’m about done here.”
“But Sir, you haven’t eaten a single bite.”
"Take it away, garçon. Merci beaucoup.”
I know I should be focusing on more of wrestling and the OCW, but I must enjoy life as much as I can. Chris likes to hang by himself more now, but I certainly like taking exotic trips and exploring their food. After all, the payout from winning the tag team titles have helped with the trips. I love to photograph food. But these days, anyone can call themselves a photographer—let alone a food photographer.
I’ve decided before heading to Australia for Technical Difficulties that I would explore Brussels, minus the sprouts. Chris volunteered to babysit Elias for me while I made this exotic trip. Now the four-hundred-year-old Gothic buildings of gilded gold stare back at me like a brilliant garrison. There is the Hotel de Ville. There is the King’s House. I consider taking a few more photographs. I might send them to friends, some of whom I haven’t spoken to in years, but would be glad to hear from.
As one might expect, all around me, people are already taking their own photos. There are hordes of tourists; they prevent me from capturing that perfect shot, the money shot. Everyone has their cameras out. I can’t help but cringe. I see un-proportioned selfies. Photos that lack composition, a sense of symmetry. Even focus. All they seem to want is something Instagram-worthy, perhaps something that might go viral. It sounds all too much like a disease without a cure. Kind of reminds me of the Dravers Twins. Needless to say, I’m after something that will last a little longer, that might stand the test of time.
I sit for an espresso at one of the cafes; I have to catch my breath. Beside me, I notice the couple trying to take a picture of the macarons on their plate. Pink, chocolate, pistachio. I shudder at the thought of the lighting; there is too much shadow, too much obscured in favor of the obvious, the trendy, though neither of them seems to notice nor care. There like a couple of “lost strangers” trying to find some kind of meaning or purpose. Hey, got to get those puns in somehow, right?
When they turn to me, I look away. I don’t mean to stare. “Excuse me,” the young man with the baseball cap says. “Can you take our picture?”
I think, of course I can—as in, I certainly know how. But it also crosses my mind that I might tell them what I do for a living, I do have several jobs to help with the bills, and that I usually charge, a lot.
Nevertheless, I take the phone. I say, “On the count of three.” When I reach three, they both say, “Cheeeese.”
But I must admit, it is a beautiful time of year in Brussels. I visit the Saint-Michel Cathedral, the grounds of the Place Royale. All the bright and blurred lights recede and fade into a kind of dream-state. And these are the instances when I might think of someone who I’d like to share the moment with. I’ll think of Jasper. It doesn’t matter that we’ve been broken up for years. In fact, he has a family of his own now, a husband, kids. But he had once been a large part of my life—and still is, to some extent. That is, we’ve remained friends. Good friends. Not everyone can say that about their exes. There are times when we still meet each other for dinner. Jasper fancies himself a kind of connoisseur. He will know all the best restaurants for steak. Where to get the best Peking duck. Ethiopian is his go to cuisine when he’s looking to impress his colleagues (he is a professor of linguistics). I simply take the pictures.
When I show Jasper my photographs, he will say to me, “It’s as if I can taste each page, Dan.” And then, “I’ve always loved your photos.”
At times, it’s the best compliment a person can ask for. “Why thank you. I do it without the use of filters. I don’t use Photoshop, little to no airbrush.”
“You don’t say.”
I still don’t think that he knows exactly what I mean, but I let it go, like so many things I’ve let go by the wayside, in order to avoid the pitfalls of bitterness.
Afterward, I am at the Galeries Royales Saint-Hubert. I photograph the chocolates in the shops. The pieces are delicately shaped, made by hand, and I long to capture their intricate and dainty details. One of the salespeople sees me. She asks if I would like to try a piece. At first, I say no. But she insists. “Why not just one? Or two?” I don’t want to seem rude. Instantly and surprisingly, I taste the sweetness of the chocolate melting in my mouth.
The next thing I know, I am sitting down for a cup of hot chocolate. Let me just say, I am no chocoholic. But it is supposed to be one of the best in the city, according to the same salesperson. I can see from her nametag that her name is Odette. Something forgettable about her name, much like how I forget that the Dravers Twins are even a part of the OCW roster. Furthermore, it would do me some good to warm up. My fingers have become reddened and numb, and I am losing my grip—on my camera, that is. But by the time I am done taking pictures of the hot chocolate, the drink has already gone cold. I leave it be. It is, after all, one of the pitfalls of the job. That’s part of the reason that The Lost Soul and I barely cross paths anymore. He’s a cold-hearted bastard who only cares for himself, am I right?
These, I suppose, are some of the misconceptions about food photography. For instance, the idea that I’ll get to eat all that I photograph. One might think that it’s a perk. But of course, there is so much that I’ll have to do to a dish in order to keep it photogenic. I use wet paper towels over bread to keep it moist. I use a makeup sponge to add height to a burger. The moment I finish capturing a hamburger, the bun will have begun to dent and dry out. The blood of the meat will bleed all over the plate as it relaxes, so time will be of the essence. The lettuce will inevitably wilt. Needless to say, rarely can I indulge. I consider myself a consummate professional. And I am of the belief that the hallmark of true professionalism is knowing when to refrain, when to hold back. Therefore, I hold back. C’est la vie.
“Just because I held back on photos doesn’t mean I’m going to hold back at Technical Difficulties. You see, Chris and I must defend our tag titles in a match that is seemingly similar to our very own Danger Zone match. An Outback Escape Match…
I get we started a trend, but someone is taking our stipulations to all new levels. Trapped in a maze in the outback? Not only that, but we have to FIND our tag titles and escape the outback maze with them? Guess someone likes copying other people’s ideas, eh?
It doesn’t matter, cause the outcome is going to be the same. Just like we did in the Danger Zone match, we’re going to grab the titles and exit the outback maze with the gold still in our possession. We didn’t come back to OCW to win these titles for a measly two months. No, we came back to keep these titles indefinitely…
We’ve already beaten the Dravers Twins, but we’ll gladly do it again. The Lost Stranger and the Danger Boiz are no strangers, pun intended, in that ring. We go back to GCWA days where we were on the same team and side at one point. However, you and your mystery partner are not going to take what is ours. We’ve worked too hard and too long to win these titles. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some freaks escape the maze with OUR championships…
If by some chance another team happens to walk out with these titles, just know that you didn’t actually BEAT us to win them. You walked out of a maze. But we won’t have to worry about that because these titles are staying with the Danger Boiz. I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure these belts remain on our shoulders.”
It is the dawn of a new day. From the window of my hotel room, I can see the decorative roofs of the Art Nouveau buildings. Though the sun rises later this time of year in Belgium, it has finally begun to come out.
I have breakfast at a bakery near my hotel. Café au lait, an almond croissant. Of course, I take photos of them both. Today, I have a bit of a headache. The wine from the previous night is still getting to me. I’m a little hungover.
In addition, I have my health to consider. Just this morning, I fell in the bathroom. The floor had been wet. It wasn’t a nasty fall. There were no broken bones, no sprains. But it only further confirmed for me some of the limitations of my own body. I think of how it’s taken a great deal of effort for me to make it to Brussels. I had flown a red eye from Tennessee. The point is that I’m not exactly a spring chicken anymore. But I still beat the best inside of the squared circle any day of the week. Nevertheless, there are actually more things in life to savor. All I need is my camera and a bit of good lighting. The rest, as they say, is gravy.
"Don’t take my admitting that I’m no spring chicken as me trying to back out of the match. I know when it comes to certain things that my body doesn’t have what it takes. But, when it comes to fighting in a ring, I put my body through anything and everything to pick up the win…
We may not be fighting in a ring, but at Technical Difficulties, when Chris and I walk into the Outback maze, we’re going to get to our titles and exit the maze to secure our victory. The Danger Boiz are here to stay and there isn’t any person, team or match that keep us down. Get ready fellas, the ENDD is near! Can you feel it?”
