'Africans going Dutch' - Part Two: Dutch lunch

Starting this month, our new weekly blog 'Africans going Dutch' will follow the highs and lows of living in Holland from an African perspective.
By Ayobami Ojebode
If you are invited to a Dutch lunch, first check your dictionary. That is my first advice for you. I was 23 years old when I first took part in a buffet and I didn’t know what a buffet was.
We were served the first course and I thought that was all the food to be served. So I ate loaves after loaves and drank one cup of soup after another. When I was full and was about to leave, they brought the main course. Heaps of fried rice, white rice, huge pieces of fried meat and chicken, and best of all, pounded yams with egusi.

But my tummy was full. I nibbled here and there and went to bed sorrowful. Yes, sorrowful because there was so much food that I could not eat. That night, I wrote down an important principle of life: always wait for the main course. And that principle worked for me. That is, until I came to Holland.
Dutch lunch
Within my first week in Holland, I met this guy who told me he loved Nigerians. His grandfather fought in Burma alongside Nigerians and made great friends with Nigerians. His father inherited this love and passed it on to his own generation. And since then he’s never stopped loving Nigerians. “Come have lunch with us, Dutch lunch”, he invited me. He boasted about his wife’s great cooking skills. “Annette grew up in Suriname but she can cook any meal in the world”, my friend boasted. So I accepted the invitation.
The night before the lunch day, I ate very little – in preparation for the lunch. The morning of the lunch day, I skipped breakfast altogether to make room for Annette’s great meal. Half past twelve, I was at my friend’s. Annette was indeed a charming woman; warm like an African. First, we were served bread with jam, peanut butter, cheese and coffee. I remembered my principle: always wait for the second course. So I nibbled at the bread. My friend and his wife prodded me to eat more but I refused. They cleared the table. I also cleared my throat knowing that the best was just to begin. Now, Annette would bring the real lunch, I was very sure.

Empty-handed
But my friend and his wife returned from the kitchen empty-handed, sat down and we began to talk: Africa, Suriname, Dutch politics, this and that. Seconds rolled into minutes, and I was getting really hungry. I kept wondering: When will these people bring the real lunch? Or have they forgotten? Should I remind them? Then my friend looked at his watch and said, ‘Em, Ayo, you know, the snow might be heavy this evening. I think you should be on your way’. ‘On my way? Which way?’ I thought. Well, I staggered my way home, kicking up snow as I went and wondering: ‘but where was the real lunch in that lunch? I couldn't stop wishing for a Nigerian lunch...