Sometimes, I get selfish. I don't want to write a really good review, sharing my worldly knowledge and keen perceptions with a wider audience---because, let's be honest; I ain't friends with all y'all, and I don't want all y'all infringing upon my discoveries.
Then, I remember. I'm not that cool---I'm just an American dude with typically few language skills, long sideburns, prescription black-frame glasses, and the same perma-creased Dickies and button-up shirts that I've been wearing for years. If anything, I'm probably infringing on the cultured elite, savvy business travellers, and artistic auteurs who somehow make a fine living out of their passions. But, dammit, don't I deserve to inhabit the the same sphere of living as them, once in awhile? Yes. Yes, I do.
De Zotte. Amsterdam in April. It was pouring rain, and the wind was blowing so hard that parts of the Albert Cuyp market literally flew away. After drying off, we wandered through some rowhouses, and down a narrow street, smaller than what the States would refer to as an "alley." A small yellow overhang announced the spot, a darkened, wood-toned bar with a dozen or so tables, maybe ten barstools. The room, sheltered from the rain and warm, was half-full and burbling with several different languages.
We found a table near the rear that was not reserved, in a divot surrounded by kegs, next to the doorway to the kitchen. The Belgian beer list was large & none-too-salty. We had tripels, a quad, a blonde, a gueze, a peach lambic...something else? The food came out after a nice, booze-warmed wait. Lamb filet with arugula was supreme; medium rare. A thick slice of quiche with farmer's cheese, and a gigantic salad. I know chips are supposed to be the domain of the Belgians, and the British also lay claim; but these were far better than any we had in those other countries, and dipped into the (housemade?) golden mayo; perfect.
A slumbering, pure-white cat awoke mid-meal, jumped to our table, and let my girlfriend rub his/her belly. After not petting a cat for 3+ weeks...this was the cherry on top of the evening. What can I say, she's a cat-lover. The somewhat awkward first-date going on a table over seemed to be less-pleased about Kitty's bar-trot; he soon returned to his spot amidst the kegs.