REINDEER AND RENNIES

Brussels really gets into the Christmas spirit big-time in the last week’s run-up to the holiday. I have paid several visits to the Christmas market in the last week, where le tout Bruxelles was eating, drinking, shopping, drinking, eating, drinking … spontaneous parties were breaking out in pubs all over the town centre, and many people had adorned themselves with Christmas decorations. ‘Tis the season to be jolly … a troupe of about 20 lunatic Frenchmen dressed up in a variety of jumble-sale outfits (a couple of Santas de rigueur for the season) and equipped with an impressive collection of trumpets, trombones, saxophones, a tuba and a couple of sousaphones were entertaining the crowd. The Reims University Medical Faculty Fanfare (brass band) – aka Boules de Feu (Balls of Fire) – for it was they - were knocking out corny old dancehall and big band favourites, jazzed up with gipsy, klezmer, latino, Arabic, reggae or Balkan rhythms bashed out on a couple of portable snare drums. The result is a BIG sound with no amps (who needs amps when you’ve got a 20-piece brass section?), but tons of chutzpah, pizzazz, and pure joie-de-vivre. They even attempt some approximate dance routines, and the overall effect is of an energetic bunch of talented lunatics who have escaped from the asylum via the pub. The nearest British equivalent is Madness, with a dash of the Pogues. I hope you're never taken ill in Reims if this lot are manning the emergency ward. They might not patch you up, but you’d die laughing.

Then ensued the onslaught that is the annual Christmas visit of Vera and Cyril Slapp. This year they were au fait enough with Brussels to be let loose on their own and even made it up to Antwerp, although apparently didn’t get as far as the Christmas market there, as Vera couldn’t get past the diamond shops. Vera is very fond of the old mulled wine, or vin chaud, which Cyril, deaf sod that he is, thinks is pronounced “Banjo”. We sampled a variety of Banjos, including an Estonian variety which certainly warmed your toes, and even ventured into the realm of flavoured Genever (or Jennifer, thank you Cyril). Apart from drinking and shopping for England, the main focus of the Slapps Christmas Visit is eating. We ate at old favourite Chez Léon, where the onion soup is to die for. We also had two stonking meals at Bij den Boer, by the Christmas market, and at La Roue d’Or, just off the Grand’ Place, which I shall be reviewing for Tippler’s rag so am not going to give away much here, apart from the ginormous dimensions of the caramelised ham hock which Vera demolished. She’s only a little woman but she’s a JCB digger with a knife and fork in her hands. She was so engrossed in her food that she even forgot to goose the waiter as she usually does.

In between Banjos we sampled chocolates from various establishments. We sampled Leonidas and Corné Port-Royal, Galler and Godiva, Manon and Mary’s (the Queen’s favourite chocolatier) (the Queen of the Belgians I mean, not QE2). They tried fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate as well as some made of marzipan with flavouring that recalls Opal Fruits. It is so divinely decadent to pop into a chocolate shop at nearly 11 p.m. after a huge meal and buy a half dozen exquisite morsels to help you make it up the wooden hill.

Brussels City Council has done up the Grand’Place again in fine form. The huge Christmas tree is decorated in blue and silver with galloping silver reindeer. The light show and electronic music kick off every half hour or so, coloured spotlights playing on the lacey architecture of the Hôtel de Ville and the guild houses, while lasers strafe the night sky and ghostly reindeer shapes gallop across the facades. At the end of each little session a barrage of bubbles is released, which catch the coloured lights and give the effect of multi-coloured glass baubles floating up into the sky. Little children chased them excitedly, as did Vera Slapp. What I admire about that woman is that varicose veins and fallen arches have never dimmed her childlike enthusiasm.

The Slapps had barrelled off on the Eurostar back to the Cotswolds laden with shopping, and I was already feeling decidedly jaded, but bravely hitched up my support stockings and tootled off to Waterloo last night for a Christmas party hosted by a Belgian colleague from work and her husband. Most of the guests were French, with me and a Polish man making up the numbers. The French were in fine fettle and after a few glasses of wine were showing their appreciation of the British. I was treated to the French rugby fans’ version of God Save the Queen, and plenty of good-natured ribbing. Jacek leaned over at one point and whispered, conspiratorially: “I’m glad you’re here, it keeps them off the Polish plumber jokes.”

I'm just off to stock up on Rennies. I wish you all a peaceful Christmas holiday, and a good digestion.