The rain is pouring down when Billie Stormzy and I make our way to the Scheveningen boulevard, me walking and the little on on his step scooter, which he steers with remarkable ease. He goes quite fast as well, but tends to go off in other directions than which we are meant to go - however, whenever I call to him to tell him we need to go somewhere else, he quickly changes course. The wind is blowing quite strongly as well - when we try to turn the corner to get from the square in front of the Kurhaus to the beach, a gust of wind knocks Billie Stormzy to the ground. He starts crying and I pick him up, after which I carry him to the boulevard to find a place to eat.
A soft-spoken, friendly waitress quietly asks whether I have a QR code. I do, and she gets ready to scan it while I take out the paper I printed a while ago. Most people opt to have their QR code, certifying that they are either vaccinated, recently tested negative for Covid19, or are just recovered from an infection, via an app on their smartphone. I, instead, preferred to print mine out and carry it with me that way. It's not that I believe there is a secret complot by the government to follow me wherever I go via the app that provides the code. However, the Dutch government is also notoriously naive when it comes to collaborate with commercial parties, and doesn't have a good track record when it comes to protecting people's privacy. So to ensure the data from my coronacheck app is not shared with any other party that has access to my phone, this to me feels nicer.
"Pick your table carefully," the waitress warns me, "there's dripping in many places". Indeed, the canvas-covered first part of the restaurant shows many wet spots on the wooden floor, with buckets strategically placed here and there. We walk a bit further, to where the restaurant proper begins, although I notice that even here, there's some leaking spots. We pick a table next to the wall and I plan to sit down on the coach that lines the wall, but Billie Stormzy has other plans. He wants to sit down on a chair, so we move to the other side of the table. Everytime I look up, I get the impression that the space we're in is much bigger than it actually is. The wall seems to be mostly open, connecting Columbus with next-door Brookly. This is not, however, the case: the entire wall is covered in mirror, and what seems to be a room beyond the wall, is actually the reflection of Columbus itself.
The waitress takes our order: I ask for an English breakfast, because that has been a while. I also take a tea for myself, and an orange juice for Billie Stormzy. I've forgotten to take toys, but Billie Stormzy remedies this by playing with the pepper and salt mills. Unfortunately, after drumming with them for a while, he starts licking them, telling me they don't tast nice, but still continuing to do so. I try to entice him with my wallet: wouldn't he prefer to play with that? It works, not surprisingly, because he is very fascinated with the contents of my wallet - something which already cost me a banking card a while ago. In a short while, the table is covered with membership cards, banking cards, and sticker cards for free coffees from different places that I regularly visit.
The drinks are brought, and Billie Stormzy sips on the orange juice. He notices a dog walking around the restaurant. "Maybe he wants to be petted", he says. I tell him I can take him to the dog and we can ask its owner - an old man sitting next to the fireplace in the middel of the restaurant, being warmed by the flames - whether the dog likes to be petted. The two of them are the only guests this morning, beside us. Billie Stormzy doesn't respond to my offer, however, so we remain seated. "Maybe he wants carrots", Billie Stormzy says about the dog. I reply that maybe he does, although dogs normally prefer bones or meat. But I'm sure he wouldn't say no to some juicy carrots. Billie Stormzy nods thoughtfully, "yes, maybe carrots," he says. I have no idea why carrots came to his mind.
Breakfast is brought: a bowl of white beans in tomato sauce, on a plate with two slices of toast, a fried egg, and a pile of fried tomatoes, mushrooms, bits of bacon and onion rings. At first, I am somewhat disappointed there are no sausages, but then I discover these are hidden under the pile of fried vegetables. It all tastes exactly how you want your English breakfast to taste: greasy, filling and comforting. A fitting breakfast for a chilly autumn morning. Billie Stormzy eats most of the egg, as well as more than a slice of toast. He is not interested in the rest, which I take. He also doesn't want any more orange juice, so after we've finished our breakfast, he returns his attention to my wallet and its contents, while I drink my tea, finish his orange juice, and read a little. Then, he starts walking around a little, but demands I follow him everywhere he goes. I tire of this and ask him whether we should pay. He nods enthusiastically, and we walk to the bar where I see a cash register.
The manager, who has appeared halfway through our visit, joins me and chats a little with me about the weather. Then, when I show him my card, he tells me I should go to another cash register: "over there, where the waiter is standing. You can interrupt the old man, he is a regular customer who visits us each morning and likes to chat." Instead, I stand a little bit to the back and let the man chat away with the waitress, his dog by his side. He goes on and on and on, and she nods politely, smiling at him. The dog gets bored, and slowly walks over to us. I let him smell my hand, then pet him a little. He's wet from the rain. Then he walks on to where we had our breakfast and scavenges the floor beneath the table for anything that was dropped by us - there are indeed a few bits, because it is difficult to eat with a toddler on your lap; and Billie Stormzy dropped some as well. The old man notices me, apoligises, and steps away so that we can pay. Much to his delight, Billie Stormzy is once more allowed to put the card in front of the card reader, after which we've paid.
When we gather our stuff at the table, he tells me it's his card - but he knows very well it's mine, because he does so with a naughty twinkle in his eye. It's a little game we play: I tell him it's "daddy's card", he replies, "no, Billie Stormzy's card", and so forth. In the end, he tells me: "Here you are" (shortening the Dutch 'Alsjeblieft' to "abliep"), and gives me the card. I put it in my wallet, and I put on his raincoat. Luckily, the rain has gone, but when I unlock the door, a gust of wind pulls it wide open.
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