Boy, can they make coffee.
‘I don’t drink strong coffee, usually,’ my sister said, but it was pressed upon her, so she did. (My sister also ‘didn’t drink’ neat whisky in the morning, but the last time we travelled together, 20 years ago to Scotland in the dead of winter, she quickly realised the medicinally warming benefits of a ‘nip’ in a pub at 10am.)
I love coffee, so I did. And it was like dying and going to heaven.
Goll-lee but the Dutch know coffee! There wasn’t a single place we went where we didn’t get a cup (usually miniature, sometimes of teacup proportions, and very occasionally about 200ml – but never, ever the giant crud that passes for restaurant/takeaway ‘coffee’ in
) of the most astonishingly
heady, fragrant, PERFECT brew. I mean, they gave us a cup of this astonishingly
awesome coffee at the car-hire place while we waited to fill out forms! Seriously,
if it weren’t for the boring landscape and the neverending rain and the
teeny-tiny toilets and all the bloody stairs and the kamikaze cyclists and the
eye-poppingly expensive cost of living and the bossy Dutch, I would move to South Africa for the coffee. Holland
They always serve the coffee with speculaas, which is a thin, crispy cinnamon/ginger biscuit of which the Dutch are inordinately proud. I say ‘inordinately’ because it’s, you know, lovely, but after a while I wouldn’t have minded a Baker’s Lemon Cream. Call me a philistine.
But niggles aside (and I’m assuming the Dutch won’t mind my criticism, because I’m kind of liking this ‘being straightforward’ thing), I have to give
enthusiastic 10 points for their coffee. It was fabulous. Holland