Since they don’t mix with me socially outside of my friend’s house, they can never remember my name, and in the beginning they called me all sorts of names that only bore the vaguest resemblance to my own. And because I couldn’t correct them every single time this happened by repeating “I’m sorry, it’s Laarmans”, they’ve ended up looking at my friend Van Schoonbeke first – with me sitting right next to him – saying things like “your friend here claims that the Liberals…” before looking in my direction. That way they don’t need to mention my name. And this “your friend” also implies that Van Schoonbeke is beginning to keep odd company.

In reality, they prefer me to be quiet altogether, because whenever I speak it turns out to be quite a chore for one of them. Out of politeness to their host, someone feels obliged to give me an overview of the birth, upbringing, education, marriage and career of some local celebrity, when all they wanted to discuss that evening was his or her funeral.

And if there’s one thing that gets my goat, it’s restaurants.

“Last week my wife and I had snipe in the Trois Perdrix in Dijon.”

I don’t see why he needs to say that he had dinner with his wife.

“I see, old chap, a little getaway with your lawfully wedded wife,” comments another.

And then they start name-dropping restaurants, one better than the other, not only in Belgium but in far-flung places too.

The first time, when I was less timid, I felt I ought to mention one as well and had a restaurant in Dunkirk in mind. A classmate of mine had told me years ago that he’d dined there on his honeymoon. And I’d remembered the name, seeing as it was named after a famous corsair.

I had the name ready and held out for an opportune moment.

But this time, all they talked about was Saulieu, Dijon, Grenoble, Digne and Grasse, and they were obviously working their way down to Nice and Monte Carlo, which meant I could hardly spring Dunkirk on them. It would be like mentioning Tilburg while going through restaurants on the Riviera.

“Believe it or not,” one of them suddenly announced, “but last week I was in Rouen, in the Vieille Horloge, and I had hors-d’œuvres variés,* lobster, half a truffled chicken, cheese and dessert, all for thirty francs.”

“Are you sure the lobster wasn’t canned crab from Japan, old boy?” somebody asked.

“And the truffles minced prostate?”

Rouen isn’t too far from Dunkirk. This was my chance, and I couldn’t afford to let it slip away. So I made good use of a lull in the conversation and blurted out: “The Jean-Bart in Dunkirk is also exquisite.”

Even though I’d prepared myself so well, I was taken aback by the sound of my own voice.