Borreltijd (Drinks Time)

 

It was twenty to three.

Or as the Dutch call it:  Tien over half drie.

Which translated means, ten minutes past half an hour before 3pm.

I looked around the room as I carefully nursed my near-empty glass of spa rood. (sparkling water)

Everyone was sitting in a big circle, as is the custom in Dutch homes when you have visitors.  

Just like some giant game of pass-the-parcel.

Wat wil je drinken?  said a voice suddenly in my ear, making me jump.

I looked up to see the host smiling down at me.

"Er", I said momentarily confused.

I thought about the herbal tea and the two glasses of water I had consumed earlier.

Maak ik een biertje graag?  I said nervously.  And instantly wished I hadn't.  

But it was too late, the damage was done.

The room went silent.  The host's smile froze and all the eyes around the semi-circle bore uncomfortably into me.   

Time stopped.

Then a little breeze came out of nowhere just as a large ball of tumble weed appeared and rolled across the pristine open-plan room before disappearing out through the sliding doors.

Somewhere in the heavy silence, a distant church bell tolled.  A lonely mournful sound.

I looked over to my wife, desperately searching for support, but she too looked uncomfortable.

I realized then, I was on my own and there was no going back.  I had become an instant social pariah.

Pretty soon, news of this incident would spread through the community like wildfire.  The cheese shop locals would now shun me forever and the butcher would probably angrily shake his cleaver at me when I passed by. 

I might have to go back to England to escape the humiliation, I thought.  What was I thinking?  

What had I done?

Well, I had broken an unwritten rule in the Netherlands that's what.

Absolutely no alcohol allowed before 4pm.  

Don't even ask.

And it was only ten minutes after half an hour before 3pm.  

I sat with my head bowed, unable to meet the gaze of anyone in the room.  

Time ticked slowly by.

Luckily for me, the Dutch are great hosts, so, once they had got over their shock and revulsion, I was given a beer.

And finally as the clock struck 4pm, others started to join me. 

I was starting to suspect that some may have wished to have a beer a little sooner...

But anyway, at long last, it was officially Borreltijd!  

The best time of day in the Netherlands.

Borreltijd is the time when the Dutch breathe a sigh of relief and permit themselves to let their hair down for a little while to celebrate the end of the working day.  

A small beer or glass of wine will be offered and drunk along with some accompanying small plates of cheese or worst.  (Borrelhapjes)

Or, if you're lucky, you might be offered bitterballen.

Bitterballen are deep-fried balls of dubious meat from an unknown origin, usually served with mustard.  

Delicious.  

But, one word of caution to the uninitiated, don't eat the innocent-looking ball immediately.  

It is likely to be around 1000 degrees and will burn your lips and mouth right off.  

It's hotter than a McDonald's apple pie.

No-one warned me when I first tried one.  I found out the painful way.

But then, all too soon, just as the Borreltijd party has begun, you will sadly have to leave. 

The Dutch have very rigid times which guests have to stick to.

And, if you get invited to someone’s house for Borreltijd or a birthday party, a specific time window will be mentioned.  

So if the invitation is for between 2pm to 5pm, then you should arrive on time (never early) and you absolutely have to leave by 5pm.  

Not a second later.

The host will then unceremoniously kick everyone out of their house so they can stick the potatoes on for dinner - ready to be consumed at 6pm on the dot. 

There is, of course, no such rule in the UK.  

People there can often turn up for lunch and end up staying for a week.   

Much to the consternation of my Dutch wife when we used to live there.

Some Brits are just a bit vague about plans and invitations.  They may say, “come around two” which means anytime between one and three would be fine. There is often no mention of a departure time.  

This can lead to awkwardness as it approaches midnight and the hosts are sitting there in their pyjamas and yawning extravagantly.  

But some people still don’t take the hint.

At least with the Dutch approach, everyone knows where they are.  Everyone can relax as they know the score.

There’s no furtive whispering between anxious hosts asking how long someone is going to be staying.

“I don’t know dear, last time he left after breakfast.”

“Breakfast?!”

“Yes, on the following Tuesday.”

Back in NL, you are only permitted to stay longer if you have a concurrent official invitation such as being invited to dinner.  

Then you can skulk around sheepishly in the background while the other Borreltijd guests drag their feet, slowly finishing their drinks while looking wistfully at the potatoes cooking merrily away on the stove.

However, after my dreadful faux pas earlier, there was no chance that I’d be invited for dinner anytime soon.

So, at ten minutes past half an hour before five o’clock, I looked at the clock.

It was nearly time to leave.  

I quickly popped the last ball of deep fried meat into my mouth and instantly regretted it. My mouth burned hotter than the Earth’s core, my breath so hot it was nearly setting fire to the host’s curtains.

In desperation, I quickly drained the glass of beer in front of me.  

Someone else’s beer.

I felt the same eyes boring into me as I stood up awkwardly.

It was now definitely time to leave.