The Food & Boring Bovine of Bruges

“… at least in prison and at least in death, you know, I wouldn’t be in fuckin’ Bruges. But then, like a flash, it came to me. And I realized, fuck man, maybe that’s what hell is: the entire rest of eternity spent in fuckin’ Bruges. And I really really hoped I wouldn’t die. I really really hoped I wouldn’t die.”  – Ray, In Bruges

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After Olivier and I had molded Play-Doh into poop, it was time to go with our friends to Bruges. I had been to Belgium before – briefly. A couple of years ago, we made a quick run there to eat some fries, buy some chocolate and grab a case of assorted Belgian beers. You know, important stuff. Why else would anyone go to Belgium?

Oh… right. Sightseeing and other touristy shit. We hadn’t done that, so it was time to go to the wild, loose, medieval city of Bruges.

When we arrived, we found an enormous parking garage. Inside, people were walking this way and that, attempting to orientate themselves… old people, fat people, over-dressed and half-dressed people… sunburned, confused and loud talking people. They were bumping into one another, staring directly at oncoming cars. Boring and annoying people. They all looked the same and somehow familiar, as though I had seen them all somewhere before.

Right… because they were fucking tourists. I had seen them before. Now we would get to join their ranks.

Once we got outside, we grabbed a city map and Olivier did his best to blend in with the herd.

We found a Spanish restaurant with big posters of bullfighters on the walls. Yeah, we did notice that Spanish food is not regional cuisine. So what. The beer was Belgian and we decided to skip the Chinese restaurant due to their wacky Belgian spelling.

What? That’s as good a reason as any.

After that, it was time to simply join the herd and cattle ourselves around the city, pointing at shit and taking pictures of it. One thing that is amusing in a touristy city like Bruges is to just sit and observe how gullible the average tourist is. We had such an opportunity when Olivier and I happened upon an apartment complex where someone had accidentally left the main gate open. Olivier spotted the open gate and just walked in… because, um… he’s what one might refer to as a “weirdo.”

“Hey,” I said. “What are we doing? This is someone’s yard… you know, for the people living in these apartments.”

“I’m just looking,” Olivier said.

“But, dude… there’s nothing to see here,” I said. I looked over my shoulder and saw 5 or 6 tourists wearing sun visors and brightly-colored shorts. They had followed us in, assuming that we were entering to see some interesting historical shit. They snapped pictures of the shrubbery, squinting their eyes and bobbing their bovine heads in an attempt to find some bit of information that would tell them what was so fucking interesting.

“Look at that,” I whispered. “Those fucking cattle just followed us in here looking for historical shit.”

“Yeah,” Olivier said. “That’s funny, right?”

It was right then that we ran away.

Now, really… while some of that historical shit is interesting – the actual historical shit, not the courtyards of random apartment buildings – there are really only 3 reasons to go to Belgium and I’ve already mentioned them. One is the wide selection of delicious Belgian beers.

Another is the chocolate. Belgians know how to do chocolate right.

But, the main reason… the most important reason: the fries. Now, let’s just have quick word about French fries. French fries aren’t French at all – they’re Belgian. I’ve heard of people on vacation in Paris being disappointed in the fries, assuming that French fries would taste better in France. Well, if this is you, punch yourself in the face because you’re an idiot. The term “French” is used due to the method of cooking, as opposed to the country of origin.

Now… if you’re one of those France-hating, “Freedom Fries” sort of people, then you can be sure that there are millions of French people who are laughing at you. Probably a few Belgians, too. Oh…and you probably shouldn’t be here… move along, now.

Here’s the beauty about getting pommes frites at the source: they are served to you in a giant paper cone. It’s impossible to eat them with the fingers because they are covered in a delicious sauce – there are several to choose from, but there isn’t any goddamn ketchup, so don’t ask. It would just ruin your fries, anyway. I recommend the spicy “Samurai Sauce.” You know that with a name like that, it will be delicious and may possibly hurt you.

With a pint of delicious white Belgian beer, it’ll make you forget all about being part of the slow-moving cattle herd.

Something else very cool about Bruges… one of the best movies ever was filmed there, so after you’ve read this post and have watched this movie, it’s just like the real thing… minus the fries, of course.

“Huh?  You two are weird.”  – Ray, In Bruges