How to Live in a Noble Family

I live with Gino. Gino Asselman. This fact came as a bit of a surprise considering I’d stressed in my housing preferences that I wanted a homestay with kids. Nowhere did I mention a single man in his early 50s. But as I read more of my housing details form, my initial disappointment soon melted away. “Gino is an excellent cook and lives in a very large apartment right in the center of Brussels. His dinners are legendary.” That doesn’t sound too bad. “Languages spoken: French, Dutch, and English.” (I later learned that the list should include German, Italian, and at one time even Swahili.) The coordinator of our program eagerly offered his own Gino rumors while pointing out his address on a map. A few people overheard him use words and phrases like “mini-royalty”, “a great chef”, “unique”, “loves art and opera”.

“Aren’t you the one living with the chef?” I still get asked. All these descriptors can’t quite prepare you for Gino.

We live on a street filled with high-end fashion shops and restaurants of several styles. We have Moroccan, Thai, American (McDonald’s), Chinese, and even a Spanish tapas restaurant that constantly circulates tempting food and desserts around all the tables using a huge conveyor belt (Allie can’t wait). The night before I moved in, Allie and I admired the apartment building from across the street before a tasty meal at the Thai restaurant.




The taxi drops me off into the obligatory rain shower. My bags in tow, I navigate between cars to the sidewalk. There is a brass button next to GINO ASSELMAN. Buzzzzz. “Hallo! Fourth floor!” someone yells into the intercom. The black metal outer door opens when I push, and I struggle to get my bags up the stairs to the second door in time. Just missed it. Buzzzzz. “Hallo! Fourth floor!” he repeats. This time I miss it again because I pulled the stupid door instead of pushing. Buzzzzz. “Uh, il y a un petit problem avec la deuxieme porte. Pardon.” “OK! Fourth floor!” Third time’s the charm.

The lift (elevator) is an old-fashioned, open-the-door-with-your-hand-and-step-in kind. You might expect to find one like this in Paris. There is barely enough space for me and my two bags. I press the button for IVeme etage (fourth floor!). Nothing happens. I check the weight limit and convert it from kilos to pounds. Meh, should be fine. The second press yields nothing. This guy is going to think I am really an idiot if it takes me half an hour to lug these huge bags up there. Finally I notice a second door that also needs to be shut, and the lift unexpectedly heaves me up to my new residence. The door of the apartment is open. Gino Asselman stands before me, smiling.



He is balding but keeping up a ponytail, rather tall, and well dressed. His purple silk tie is held together by a jeweled tiepin, the jewel colors complementing his light green dress shirt well. Over the shirt and tie ensemble, he wears a white vest with a subtle floral pattern. As luck would have it, I’ve just come from my interviews. In this hand of fashion poker, I call his silk tie, dress shirt, vest, and raise him a pair of cufflinks. Although I guess he holds the better hand with his fancy jeweled tiepin. Plus I get the feeling that this is his everyday-wear. Hopefully he doesn’t get the impression that this is my normal style.

The apartment is breathtaking. Not that I would need breath, because Gino launches straight into how things work and where things are and what he likes. I half pay attention, half try and comprehend that this is where I’ll be living for 4 months. My bags go in my room, which has a lofted doubled bed and a desk underneath with plenty of workspace. There’s a sink and mirror!, a large closet, and six expensive-looking paintings hanging on the walls. The bathroom I will use has a marble bath and separate shower. I can choose, he tells me, between the old-fashioned overhead showerhead or modern close-range ones. Gino sees I am starting to get overwhelmed by the place, so he suggests we leave for dinner.

My first mistake is assuming we'll have a quick bite to eat (4 hours). Gino has already quizzed me extensively on what types of food I like, and he decides on Italian. From the moment we walk in the door, we seem to receive a great amount of attention. One waiter takes our coats and scarves while another apparently alerts the owner of our presence. She is the wife of the chef and races out to great us in Italian. “Bonjourno” is all I’ve got. Apart from the chef, everyone working helps to prepare the table perfectly for us. The focus is on me as we are seated. What will be my apero (before dinner drink)? I had wine back at the apartment already, so I opt for ,5 L of still water. Gino orders some fancy Italian drink that is rushed out and looks delicious. Mental note: let him order first and get the same thing.

Again in Italian (then French for my benefit) the owner offers the specialties of the day. I understand most of it in French, the gaps of understanding made up for by her grandiose gestures. First course, some type of red fish. Then two types of fish, one grilled one not grilled. Then special (uh oh?) pasta. Gino knows what is best here, I figure. I stick with the plan to place my dinner choice in his hands.

“This will be a feast of fish!” he declares. Before the first fish course, bread appears out of nowhere on the bread plates. Here I make my second mistake.

“Ah ah ah.” Gino stops me as I spread butter across the bread. “Do you plan to eat a sandwich?” he asks. “Uhh, no,” I respond eloquently. My first etiquette demonstration follows as Gino takes butter from the dish with the butter knife and puts it on the side of the bread plate. He butters one piece at a time. Ohh, got it now. Butter knife in hand, I attempt to cut a bite sized piece of bread.

“Oh you poor boy. We do not cut bread.” I’m defeated. This is my second mistake in as many minutes. At this rate, we’ll be here until tomorrow. “Rip a piece, butter it, eat and repeat.”

Vindication comes my way during the first course. Gino expects me to make the American mistake of switching my fork between my hands, but I am learned and practiced at the European way. The knife stays in my right hand, the fork in my left, and I don't put the knife down even if I only need the fork. Sometimes they work in tandem. The knife aids the fork to pick up a large mix of greens and red tuna. The only etiquette points Gino make are the proper way to take a drink while eating, and what is conveyed by the placement of the utensils on the plate. Crossing them into a triangle at the bottom means NOT DONE. In the olden days, fork down was just NOT DONE, whereas fork up screams NOT DONE & I NEED MORE. The latter, however, is rarely used except in the fanciest of places (this restaurant being one of them) or diplomatic dinners and the like. Gino stresses that etiquette's purpose is not to make you look fancy; it is merely practical.

By this point I’m making a conscious effort to mirror my hostdad (and as he often reminds me, hostmom). I mimic everything: from the way he uses a fork to squeeze more lemon juice over the greens and tuna, to the angled way he sits in the chair. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you’d come across two nobles (nope just one).

How do we fill the gaps between lessons in nobility? No small talk, that’s for sure. Topics breached include: the presidential race, capital punishment, creationism, the big bang, religions, tipping in the US and Europe, language policy, and so on. We talk so much in fact, that I am taken aback for my next lesson, which brings me back into the present, reminding me we are sitting down to dinner. By this point, there is swordfish and a different type of tuna in front of me, and a huge plate of pasta. Every centimeter (inch, if you like) of the table is now completely filled with glasses of wine and water or plates of bread, fish, and pasta. No more room at the inn. Soon to be no more room in the stomach.

Like with bread, we do not cut fish. Unlike with bread, we do not tear bite size pieces of fish with our hands (siyo Tanzania, hapa). The fish knife is specifically designed. (We get new silverware brought to us with each plate.) Point the tip of the knife into the fish, pull down, and it falls away beautifully. Practical, not fancy.

Gino excuses himself to use the restroom. Earlier my phone had started vibrating during conversation, but I doubted the classyness of checking your cell phone in this locale. I take this opportunity to check it. A text from Allie:

"My place is cute! Is everything good boyfriend?"

I think about this question: the apartment, the food, the conversation...
All I can do is smile.




Have an appropriate question about Gino? Ask it in a comment. I heard some people didn't know how they could leave comments. You just check the box marked anonymous and then sign your name at the bottom so we know who it's from. That's likely the easiest way. Bon chance.