The Joke's On Me

I hit a milestone at the market the other day.

A couple of weeks ago there was a frenzy at the fish stall, as all of the Flemish people bought little fish wrapped up with onions. I asked the kindly fish man what the scoop was and he explained that they were maaltjes, the first herring of the season. Apparently these fish are extra great because they’re young and not too salty.

Anyway, I did some research, and the extreme delight that the arrival of these fish engenders has been dubbed “Herring Fever.” Before I moved here I would never have thought that herring was something to get feverish about, disco, yes, herring, no. Anyway, turns out I was wrong, because there was a near riot amongst the shopping-buggy wielding grandmas eager to get their mitts on the fish. I guess these maaltjes are the Dutch version of “Beaujolais Nouveau," only, you know, fishy...

You are supposed to cover the maaltje in onions and eat them raw. (Just to be clear, this is no, delicately coloured and delicious looking piece of pink sushi, but a slimy, grey, nasty looking sardine-y type fish. In fact, even as the fish lay on the ice in the stall they looked pissed off -- a tricky thing to pull off, given they had no heads). Still, after the fishmonger explained all of this, I had to buy some to try (Or more accurately, take a tiny nibble and then force Andrew to eat the rest).

Anyhoots, my inquiries into the mysteries of the maaltje has formed a friendship with the fishmonger, and he is friendly when I see him. He and his wife are Flemish, but I have always conducted my business in French, because I’m nervous about my vocabulary (non-existent) and worried that if they answer me in Flemish I won’t understand a thing, and I’ll go home with half an octopus or something.

The other day, though, was different. I had just bought a huge bouquet of flowers when I stopped to pick up some salmon for dinner. As usual, I ordered in French and got my money. Summoning up ALL of my courage, though, I said “thank you” in Flemish (Not really a tough one, “dank u.”) Anyway. The fishmonger responded by making a joke in Flemish, which I ACTUALLY UNDERSTOOD! It was a moment of pure, sweet victory. It made up for all the months I spent mastering words like smakelijk (delicious) and stoomstrijkizer (iron).

Now, mind you the joke – “Are those flowers for me?” Was not exactly Saturday Night Live material. What’s more, I probably would have caught the gist of it (De bloemen voor me?) even if I hadn’t spent five months playing Flemish Bingo and learning how to tell a doctor I had throat pains, or ask for directions to the church. Nonetheless. It still felt pretty damn good.

Next thing, I’ve got to learn how to actually RESPOND to a joke without just smiling like a crazy person and scuttling off.

Baby steps. Baby steps.