Late autumn, somewhere near the coast in the Netherlands.
It is a miraculous evening. The blue hour settles over the city, a steady wind carries fresh, crisp air in from the coast, and little stars begin to twinkle in the cloudless sky. Apartments light up one by one in candlelight and soft, golden warmth. It is an autumn evening that nobody plans for, yet everyone remembers the feeling of it and wishes it had never ended. A night full of culinary delights, and also of political corrections.
There I sit on the balcony, mouth watering at the thought of the feast ahead, sipping a Shipyard American IPA from Maine and building a little bonfire in my smokeless fire pit. I light the starter cubes and stack the wood into a perfect pyramid. The crackling begins, small embers lift off, released by pockets of air, and then the flames start to dance. My eyes light up, not only from the warmth and shine of the fire, but from something deeper, something more ancient, an instinct older than any of us. A shower for the soul and the senses. The beauty of fire.
Meanwhile, the precooked ribs from the butcher in the neighborhood rest in the oven, wrapped in foil, at 150 degrees Celsius for forty minutes, until they almost fall off the bone. Then they get five more minutes, either under a last, fierce blaze of heat or with a little smoke on the grill, so the Hickory & Brown Sugar glaze from Sweet Baby Ray’s turns crunchy and sticky.
I wash the mussels I bought at Simonis, the fish shop just around the harbor in Scheveningen, and start the broth. Butter goes in first, lots of it, left to sizzle and melt slowly. In goes a mix of herbs and fresh vegetables: onions, celery, carrots, and spring onions. I let everything sweat for a while, then add a good splash of dry wine, about 150 milliliters, to deglaze the pot.
Tonight’s wine is a Riesling Mineralschiefer from Grans-Fassian, born of slate soil, and it finds its perfect counterpart in the oceanic savor of the mussels. Each sip and each bite is a small testament to the meeting of sea and stone. I add the freshly washed mussels to the big pot and let everything boil on high heat for seven minutes.
The fries arrive freshly cut from the brasserie around the corner, with a good chunk of Belgian mayonnaise on the side. The lobster, bought frozen, is warmed gently until it is hot and tender. Soon the table inside is set, with the TV murmuring in the corner and the fire glowing through the balcony door: the lobster with hollandaise, the mussels in their steaming broth, the ribs glazed and glistening, corn on the cob, warm garlic bread, cocktail sauce on the side, and honey mustard for the fries. Brine, smoke, butter, and fire, all in one evening.
Across the ocean, change is in the air. On this election evening, the results are not in yet, but the anticipation of a blue tsunami is building, and so is the anger for change. Voters are asking for a correction, a return to some normality and relief, here in Europe we know the current well, with radical voices gaining ground and the debate growing harder and louder.
I look at the fire, the shells in the pot, and all the other foods laid out on the newspaper. Mussels from Scheveningen, a beer from Maine, a Riesling from the Mosel, all in one evening, perfectly fitting together. The only question is who wants the last piece of garlic bread. A table like this is a tiny democracy, built on inclusion, not exclusion, with a seat for everyone who is willing to enjoy and be part of it. The small things in life are not small at all; they are where we learn to live together, in the here and now, and shape the future.
The blueberry cheesecake is served, and the embers glow softly lower and lower. I savor a spoonful of the sweet delight, my eyes glued to the TV, full of anticipation and uncertainty at the same time. Whatever tomorrow brings, tonight there is a fire, a full table of savory delicacies, a little hope, and always room for one more chair.