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About Eindhoven

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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So, I’m wandering around, and I end up on the Korteweg. I see this little café, and I’m like, “Why not?” I grab a slice of appeltaart, and it’s like a slice of heaven. I’m talking about the kind of dessert that makes you forget your problems. But then, I realize I’ve got crumbs all over my face. Great, just great.

Bistro Skal, Ouddorp aan zee