COFFEE, HOT-DOGS AND FLAT-CATS

Only five minutes ago I was trying to write a story about Gypsies, Native Americans, Bible and meeting someone for a coffee. In America. 

I couldn’t mention ‘coffee’ and ‘America’ in one sentence without having a little drama, so I decided to stop and write a different story. The story of coffee and cats.

And again….. a gentle reminder – everything I write, bad grammar and all, is only a bunch of my opinions.

Here it goes.

A note to US citizens. What you’d normally call ‘coffee’, is actually not coffee at all. It might be hot and it might be brown, but that is where the similarity ends. Even if does contain some caffeine, it’s a totally different entity altogether. But not to worry…it’s not a big deal. It happens a lot. Take ‘Crab Sticks’ for example. The ‘sticks’ part is true, but the rest is not. No crab meat there, just some surimi, starch and a bit of red paint. ‘Hot Dog’… you don’t really expect it to be made from some unfortunate Fluffy, do you? The same principle generally applies to American coffee. I’m sure there are places in US which will serve you a real thing, it’s just maybe I wasn’t lucky. I don’t want you to think I’m being unfair and anti-American, so I’ll tell you that during my travels I found one more place where coffee is not what it should be. Belgium! Having France and Italy nearby would have some effect on what’s being served in cafes (you’d think), but no. Don’t get me wrong though, Belgium coffee is not as bad as what you’d get in the Land of Free. At least it smells like coffee. Unless you are in ‘Decker’s Hacienda’  – our friend’s Liessa’s house. Her folks invite us for food and excellent coffee, and in return we bore them to death with our songs…

Also, Ireland could’ve been a contender some years ago. I remember asking for a double espresso in a tea-room in Dublin, and the answer was: ‘Sure, I can make it very fast…express-like’. ‘One spoon or two?’, the nice lady asked, holding up a tin of an ‘instant’. I just said I need to use a bathroom… ‘express-like’. Our Italian friend Frankie once asked for a ‘Ristretto’ in a coffee shop somewhere in Athlone. They didn’t have a clue. After he explained that Ristretto is very small and strong espresso, they generously put three spoons of instant powder in a drop of hot water. I had to pacify Frankie as he took is as a personal insult. But it’s all in the past. Now, in order to get a best double espresso in the world, all I have to do is to get out of the house and walk for five minutes. There’s at least a dozen of beautiful coffee shops in Dun Laoghaire and coffee is excellent.

I love touring. I love every single country I visited and every single person I met. I like everything and everyone, except of this dude who trashed my motorbike in Prague 20 years ago. But !!! It’s because of him I got to meet local bikers who helped me to find a mechanic, took care of me in every possible way, brought me into their houses, fed me 5 times a day, gave me one of their bikes and generally speaking, turned up to be a greatest bunch of people. So as I said, there is always a bright side to everything. For example, in Belgium, to compensate for their lack of proper coffee, they have a sense of humour. Sometimes a bit too specific, but always highly entertaining. 

A couple of years ago we had a gig in Ypres, in one of those cute Belgium towns where houses look like toys, flowers are everywhere and proper old ladies are having their tea outdoors. We had a few hours to kill before the concert, so we decided to go for a coffee. We spent all morning wandering around and being honked at by various bicycling characters (who actually are quite nice when in non-cycling mode). There was no proper coffee around, so we decided to split and try our luck separately. We agreed to text each other if we find something decent. In 10 minutes or so, reports started to come in. They were short, brutal and up to the point: ‘Balls!’ (that’s from our cello), ‘Shite!’, ‘Feck!’ (from the guitar section), ‘Crap’ (from our double bass), and polite ‘No luck’ (from our violin). I think it was me who suggested we meet up at the town square, so at least we get something to eat before the gig. We found a restaurant and sat around the table. We looked at the menu and saw a symbol printed on the front page. The same symbol was painted on all windows and on the notice board at the front. It looked like some kind of…. shapeless flat thing. There was something very unsettling about it. After a while we gave up guessing, and I asked our waitress about the picture. Apparently she’d answered this question many times before, as her story sounded like a well-rehearsed report in a primary school. That’s what she told us:

A few hundred years ago a massive horde of rats invaded Ypres. It was completely overrun by hairy vermin. They started to spread disease, chase after dogs and devour everything edible, including furniture. After it became a major health and safety issue, a Mayor devised a brilliant plan to save the town. All citizens of Ypres were ordered to go and to acquire a cat each. And so they did. How and where they got those cats, the story doesn’t specify. They brought in thousands of cats. They didn’t feed cats for a few days and then they let them out. Rats didn’t have a chance. Cats cleaned the whole town in a day. After they finished with rats, they started on dogs, chickens and everything that moved. They stole food, had street-fights, they started to multiple with an alarming rate, and soon became an even bigger issue than rats. They broke into the Mayor’s house, ate a Mayor’s dog and violated his wife. Good people of Ypres fought well, but without much success. They got depressed and they got scared. They started to leave the town. And then this genius the Mayor, came up with another brilliant idea (Greenpeace people, don’t read now). He ordered his citizens to prepare for the final fight, to collect all cats and to throw each and every one of them from the bell-tower. And so they did. They thought it was hilarious. They still do. And to commemorate this dubious occasion, a cat-throwing festival called ‘Kattenstoet’ is being held in Ypres every May. Now it’s a main tourist attraction, and according to our young, pretty and politically incorrect waitress, more than eight thousand people came to Ypres in 2008 to chuck a kitty from the tower.

Photo by Inna Astakhova / shutterstock.com

As we live in cat and dolphin-friendly times now, it’s not very popular to use live cats anymore, so they throw stuffed toys instead. Still fun, I guess. Our waitress was very proud of this fine tradition. The symbol on the window, she told us, was actually a cat itself. A post bell-tower cat. A flat cat, to be precise. Then she asked us if we want to try their pancakes. I said they should be called cat-cakes instead. Or ‘flat-cats’. Why not? After all, Americans have their ‘hot-dogs’, and God knows what’s the real story behind the brand name. Now I wonder…Would Americans have the same sense of humour like good people of Ypres do. Would they?

It is nearly 2am. The subject of ‘Cats and Coffee’ was sufficiently covered in this little story, so I’ll retire for now.

Come to Dublin and I’ll make you a proper espresso. It’s strong, it’s sweet and it has enough horsepower to propel you into the day, head first. We also have a small fox who regularly pops into our garden to have a chat about weather and some other trivia. He’s friendly. You’ll like him.

Good night!