Coronavirus streets at canine trot - LVIII

Beware of dog

Deciding on an early start rather than taking a nap after work, I launched into my walking exercise with the aim of catching up on my daily average, if not for the week, at least for the month. My balaclava face mask worn like a neckerchief to be pulled up when approaching crowds, for the pandemic is not over by a long stretch.

The dusk was closing in quickly, that at 5:00 PM, it was as good as dark and so I needed to reconsider how my route would go. As I came off the second crossing of River Irwell, I took a turn that left me with the foreboding of an unfettered dog barking at the sense of any movement around its territory, but it appeared the dog was already out on walks with its owner that was chatting to their neighbour as passed by, the dog literally ignoring me, I was quite surprised.

Beware of person

Back on my typical route, one pedestrian path had been closed off for road maintenance which left me in an awkward dalliance with danger and car oblivious of other road users. I survived to make it onto Peel Park where I found that quite a few dog owners had attached lights to their dogs so they could be sighted in the dark.

Another two encounters with dogs well-behaved almost had me wondering whether the dogs had been pacified and mollified with substances, only to almost walk into another dog that the owner did not care to control. Meanwhile, the cover of darkness allowed for a dog to foul the undergrowth without having to clean up after their dog.

Beware of plumes

When I came out to the students’ halls of residence, I was accosted for a lighter which would be rather strange as I would have never really expected someone exercising to be a smoker, the lady who asked had me thinking, I stopped flicking a lighter long before you were born. I stopped smoking in 1988.

Back on the macadamised path between River Irwell and Peel Park, I had a second encounter with that control that appeared to be out of control whilst on the leash and now much better behaved when allowed to roam free, you can only wonder whether the temperament is on the owner or the dog.

Beware of fools

My last canine encounter was at New Islington, two dogs with two owners, the leads left loose that they covered the whole pathway such that anyone wanting to go by needed the owners to tug the leads or call the dogs.

Why that is so necessary when it was obvious, they were in a busy area, escapes me, but you have to agree that dogs either imitate the good behaviour of their owners or the owners simply copy the wildness of their potentially housetrained and domesticated dogs, the potential left unexploited from my observation.

It was a good workout and for all the dogs I saw, none barked or growled, it was just a case of the control or absence of the same.

Interrupted conversations with Django

My doggone life

Every time I have this conversation in distant Bulawayo, I ignore the din of our conversation to listen to the distinctive musical chords of Django.

She sings for the foremost canine symphony orchestra, her repertoire is legendary as to be endearing, you can only want to meet her in effusive fandom for appreciating her talent. I could have met her, but I was constrained and restrained, barred and denied that great pleasure.

Every demand fell on deaf ears, for he would have made our acquaintance was envious of her. As she sang to my ears, he seized her, the dog-napper in his element put her in the van and made to getaway. He never did for I had let out the air in his tyres as he tried to put his foot down.

The seat of his pants

Well, he did put his foot down and his rickety van welded together with bits from a scrapyard, the windshield held in place with duct tape, and everything else rattled like cymbals and drums in cacophonous disintegration. And there he was strapped to his seat far in front of the van.

A crowd gathered around to help; the accident had apparently pulled off his dungarees that he was left in his underwear. Someone dared to ask, what happened, and he sheepishly answered, he had just tried to take Django away from her friends. The patriarch and the boyfriend. The crowd booed him and freed Django, for she was loved by the neighbour and definitely not a nuisance sheepdog.

Django happily jumped about and wagged her tail, we were reunited and then in one lunge, she took a bite out of his cakes. Oh, we laughed, as he ran off, his heels touching the back of his head as he sped away. What a sport you are, Django.

The cravings of an omnivore - Castell Amsterdam

A life beefed up

The weather was nice enough to persuade me to go out for a walk of sorts. As I got into town, I suddenly had a craving for some meat, a steak, something succulent, juicy and palatable.

Oh! The omnivore in me was tending to the carnivorous than the herbivorous. I just cannot comprehend veganism or the tendency to ignore our predisposition for meat and vegetables for a life of trying to chew the cud unsuccessfully, we are neither bovine nor canine – I know what I want and our bodies are crafted by creation, nature, nurture or evolution, if you may, to handle meat well.

The craving had to be satisfied well away from all the Amsterdam tourist fare; so, none of those restaurant chains of conveyor-belt food pretending to serve Argentinean steaks or some other fancifully named stuff.

For our delectable pleasure

I needed a place where the ceremony of sacrificing a member of the bovine species on the altar of the satisfaction of the homo sapiens sapiens' palate was fulfilled from the sacred cow in the right condition to when it landed on the plate.

Probably only 2 places in Amsterdam offer that quality of service with an attention to presentation that is so different and quite authentic.

Cafe de Klos on Kerkstraat near the junction with Leidsestraat, reputed to serve the best spare ribs in the land and Castell on Lijnbaansgracht not too far from Leidseplein.

Not all my dentition is mine, so I am not so much a fan of spare ribs because it carries great buccal cavity risks that I have already succumbed to, too many times already.

At Castell

So, I walked further down to Castell where I was warmly greeted and set in my seat at the bar where there was ample table space for a meal.

Castell exudes a rustic atmosphere, dark as if lit by a log fire, the setting is cosy and the music is mellow.

It is unpretentious as the lobster soup gets served with splashes of Courvoisier without the uncouth hedonism of bling-laden hip-hop genuflection, it is not a case of trying to arrive but a simple question of good taste.

Medium is not rare

As far as my tastes are concerned, I have come a long way from West African cooked beef that was nigh on leather to when I demanded that my steak be cremated and brought back as ashes through when I sent my steak back 5 times in a French restaurant in Paris because it was still pink on the inside.

I can never have it blue but medium rare is just right for my tastes, the flavour of beef is just right when the juices are not completely cooked out of the meat as if one were autoclaving food.

A knife to the plank

I chose the Dutch fat arse steak (see menu); I suppose that means rump steak whilst I downed a glass of the house red nibbling on white bread with garlic butter. I was not keen on a jacket potato and opted for a salad.

The steak arrived on a wooden cutting board and for cutlery, I had a fork and definitely not a sissy serrated steak knife but a decent French Sabatier 8” chef’s knife – it could well have killed the cow if it were Halal-prepared.

My craving was fully satisfied as I carved into the steak and having cut off the excess fat, diced portions to chew, sometimes interspersing that would mouthfuls of salad, preferring the garlic and herbs sauce to the curry thing.

With the most appreciative approval

Every other omnivore in sight just nodded in approval after their first bite and were effusive with praise at the end – new-comers were persuaded of anything the connoisseurs said was good. One could say there were more regulars there than first-timers, but once you've had a steak at Castell, you probably would be back with friends.

At the end, after the tips and the pleasantries, if only there was a way to thank the cow or the bull for being so delicious, we are yet to genetically modify beef for life and death – not in my lifetime.