Snapshot // "Taarten of kaarten?"
“Taarten of kaarten?”
“Cake or cards?”
Every December the 25th, it’s the same call that goes out, but it’s not really an either or.
Christmas for me here in Belgium means joining the extended family of my wife for a day of eating, drinking, and card-playing. First come the plates piled high with generous wedges of cheesecakes, apple pies, and rhubarb tarts.
This Christmas we’re in an off-duty soccer clubhouse, walls dotted with trophies and decommissioned supporters scarves. Outside, a winter sun illuminates then throws into shade the rutted pitch as it traces its low arc across the sky. Plates cleared away, the serious business can begin. The hum of conversation increases, accompanied by the thwack of chalked pool cues on billiard balls, and the bleating of unattended toddlers. It’s time for Whist - Wiezen - and aunts and cousins hive off into groups of four, to furrow their brows over whatever hand the deck has dealt them.
I decline an invitation to join one group - hard-won experience has convinced me that neither my card nor language skills are up to the task. instead, I busy myself getting beers for me and the players at my table. Because there’s always beer - and none of your weak stuff.
Christmas Day is a day for the classics, and every square inch of shelf-space in the clubhouse fridge has been accounted for. Quiet negotiation is interrupted by the occasional exclamation of objection - “degoutante man!” - to a card move or an off-colour joke, and by the popping of bottle caps.
Soon the tables are filled with half-decanted bottles. Duvel. Chouffe. Orval. Westmalle.
It’s going to be a long night, and you’ve got to keep hydrated.
