Belgian McDonald's and other horrible food

Tonight I had nothing much in the fridge and I started to think about if I should bother heading out to grab something quick to eat or just go to bed. It's not like I don't have options around here, unlike a lot of other areas in Brussels. There are no fritkots within throwing distance, but there's plenty of other stuff to clog my arteries.

I pass Pizza Hut, McDonald's and Quick on a daily basis, a reminder that multinational corporations and capitalism are never far away. And as much as I hate to see their giant logos so far away from the country that spawned them, I'll admit that I love walking up to the Pizza Hut counter and paying 1.60 for a slice of a pizza whenever I want and then being on my way. And I don't complain every once in a while when classmates drag me to McDonald's to get a burger after a few drinks. Beyond the staple restaurants you have the not-so-common places like Chicken Spot (why didn't they just call it Chicken Restaurant Place and be done with it?) or kebab shops.

One of the first things you notice after walking into a McDonald's or anything else from the states is that they don't run the same menus over here. You'll find the Big Mac but beyond that it gets kinda weird. For example, one of their specials right now is the CHICKEN MYTHIC.When I hear the words Chicken and Mythic together, the first and immediate image that comes to mind is a Mythical Chicken from some epic Greek poem, about a gigantic fucking chicken who roams the countryside at night, eating children who dare to venture beyond the city's walls. What I don't picture is a nice big chicken patty on a piece of bread and some fresh iceberg lettuce.

Us Americans really do have a gift when it comes to advertising, it seems. But we also deliver on those offers. It's just not in their blood over here. I think it comes down to 10 Frenchmen sitting around a table gesticulating, the boss finally piping up with "Alor, what should we call zis thing?"

And in accordance to French work ethic they all just shrug, mutter something about the food being dégueulasse (that's "disgusting" and you should say it like "degolass", with a sneer) ... and then say they'll think of something later after they finish their apperitifs of Pernod, but then never do it, and they lose your paperwork and act like they don't know what you're talking about when you show up for your identification... wait, I'm getting off track. But the government offices might as well be run by McDonald's employees.

If you bother going to the McDonald's websites (who does that, ever?) you'll notice the European McD's has a really small menu compared to the US one, not to mention everything looks smaller. There is no double quarter pounder, that is for sure. Probably because people here are not horrible, fat monsters.

Now let's take a look at Quick, France and Belgium's answer to shit food. Their menu includes:

• the Cheeseburger
• the Classic Pepper
• the Supreme Cheese
• the Quick 'n Toast
• the Giant
• the Long Chicken
• the Long Bacon
• the Long Fish

Exciting! And that's right, you heard me, the Long Chicken. The second cousin of the Chicken Mythic, destroyer of children, friend of Long Fish, destroyer of seafaring vessels (no relation to longcat). The Supreme Cheese tells them all what to do. That's ingenuity. Lately, though, I've seen all sorts of advertisements in the streets from Quick. They're taking a cue from us Yanks and are cranking it up a notch, throwing out stuff like the...

You can almost hear the advert shouting SUPREME TENDER BEEF at you, but that's where the excitement ends. That's European supreme -- a regular burger. Like American companies, Quick routinely tries to pass off food as EXTREME and GIGANTIC, but that's where they have our evil corporations beat, because they give you a normal burger but charge you a supreme price. For the price of that thing you could get 3 of these things:

...and then you would die, but that's your choice, damn it. It's available. Ah well, when in Brussels. I guess I'll have a beer and go to bed and wake up to feel miserable.

Belgian Frites

That's "french fries" or "chips" to you and me...

Belgium's known for a lot of things. Never mind that it's the heart of the EU, or that Napoleon got his ass kicked in Waterloo -- forget the diamonds in Antwerp and the battlefields of Ypres (OK, maybe not the latter, that's kind of important). It's the food and drinks that they're really known for. Waffles, chocolate, beer... mussels and fries. If there were ever a country after American's own cholesterol laden heart other than itself, it is Belgium.

And by no means am I exaggerating. When it comes to things to make you fat, Belgium truly has America beat. Believe it. No matter where you walk around in Brussels, for example, you're bound to find a fry shop, chocolatier, pub with more beers than you can count, or the sweet smell of waffles wafting through the air. It is that prevalent. But today I'm going to talk about the fries, because those are just as important as anything else.

The story goes that during WW1 American doughboys saw Belgian troops eating fries and subsequently called them "French fries" -- after all, they were speaking French, so who else could they be? They then brought the idea back to the states and the rest is fatty fatty two-by-four history.

I figure if you've never been to Belgium it must be hard to picture where you get fries, and why. Especially if you're from the US and you can (and maybe do) get them with just about any meal you want. I wanted to visit for years and read all about where to go and what to do but paid no attention to the frites.

So first off, why? Well, everyone loves fries. Or they should. Secondly, it's a matter of Belgian pride, as they're the ones who created them. It's almost an art form here. In the end, though, it's just a nice treat; they're good, they're cheap, and they hit the spot. There are also a billion different sauces to choose from to mix things up a bit, some of which still remain a mystery to me. Your typical menu of sauces at any given place consists of the following, and it's easy to understand why it can get confusing: Sauce Blanche, Sauce Samouraï, Sauce Andalouse, Sauce Harissa , Sauce Aïl , Sauce Cocktail/Américaine, Sauce Barbecue, Sauce Curry , Sauce Tartare... the list can go on.

The Belgians and Dutch prefer straight up mayo, but a lot of the other sauces are mayonnaise-based and ketchup-based with different spices thrown in. Example: Américain is simply mayo + ketchup. Some are hot, some just have a different tang. I tried samourai on my Kebabs before I knew it was essentially fiery mayonnaise and fell in love with it. Only later when I realized what I had done did I feel dirty (I got over it). If I'm not sure what to get I stick to a little bit of ketchup and some salt and that's it. Depends on your mood and how many hours or days you'd like to shave off of your life.



The fries themselves are supposed to be fresh, "irregularly cut", and fried twice. The oil used for frying is really what gives them their unique flavor -- each friterie has their own oil and cooking method of choice. Normally, the fries are served in a cone (to maximize the amount) and the sauce comes splattered on top. You eat them with a little plastic fork unless you're me, in which case you just dig in with your hands. That's when the cone and the sauce become a problem. Honestly, I couldn't care less what they come in, because when you get frites here in Belgium it's usually after you've had a few beers. Whether it's the same night after nursing some 8%'ers or the next day to nurse your hangover, it really doesn't matter; the two go hand in hand.

Ironically, the best frite places are often little stands placed through out the city. You might expect more, but then you'd be disappointed. Most of the places are in "fritkots" (that'd be dutch this time), almost resembling what we'd call a "roachcoach" back in the US. A little portable trailer and nothing more. Even the brick and mortar places are incredibly small. You can get "french fries" anywhere, but it doesn't mean the establishment is devoted to them, so it's not going to be the same. I think in this case, the smaller it is, the better. Here are 4 places I frequent or at least know of for now. All of them are hailed by locals and tourists alike, so you really can't go wrong:

Fritland

This one is an exception to the rule, as it's even got sitting area inside. As per my rule, it's really not the best place in town, but Fritland is very popular, and for a reason. It is where you go after a night of drinking, or after a night of anything, actually. It's open late -- 1.00AM or so, and it's situated right in the center near the bus stops. On your typical Friday or Saturday night, you hit up a few bars and try some Belgian beers, then head home on the bus. Before you get there, the smell of this place hits your nostrils and soon you're queuing in line for a cone your own... which, inevitably, ends up being shared, willingly or not, with your buddies... everyone mauling at it like a group of Mr. Potato Head zombies. You can sit inside during the day if you feel like exposing yourself to the immense amount of heat being put out by the fryers, and like most places you can get kebab-like sandwiches or loempia or just about anything deep fried. At night they close the doors, so you order from the window and then stand around gorging yourself like a fat fuck in front of all the people catching their buses. But it's worth it when you're desperate.

Frit'Flagey

I pass this place on the bus all the time. I look at it longingly and yet it always seems to evade me. Part of the reason is because it's always packed, but if the locals like it, you know it's worth the effort. It's situated in a chaotic area -- Place Flagey -- on the way to the University of Brussels, so it's a sort of hub stop for trams and buses, along with a billion cars weaving here and there across the FUBAR'd intersection. Apparently, one of the guys running the place is fairly well known for being a dick. Much like the "Soup Nazi" in Seinfeld, he will refuse service to you if he doesn't like the way you speak to him. Part of me thinks that's wonderful and I'd like to have a beer with that man, and the other part of me says, if I wait in line 30 minutes for some fries I better fucking get them. There are other places, however, which leads me to...

Pitta De La Chapelle

That's right, everybody. Here's a picture of a beautiful chapel built in 1134 and I'm talking about the fritekot in front of it. Let's just call these guys religious, as they had the balls to name their fry stand after the gigantic medieval church situated behind them. In fact, you can hardly see the 'kot in the picture because it's dwarfed by said church (behind the van). That's Belgium, baby. It's located near the Sablon where you can find a lot of antique shops and a market area on Sundays. I go there for the fries. The guys are really nice and you can take a seat on one of the benches next to the church if it isn't too busy. Normally it's a calm area, which is why I frequent it. There's an ATM really close by and you can use your extra money to get a Poulet Croc if you get the chance -- it's just a stick of deep fried chicken, but it is truly a piece of heaven. After that you can go into the church and pray for your arteries.

Tabora

These guys are hardcore. They stay open until 6am and apparently use veal fat for their frites, giving them their own unique flavor. This is the first friterie I visited in Brussels. Marine took me there after a night of wandering around and it was definitely a surprise. In America you're used to fries sitting under heat lamps and being shoveled at you in cardboard cartons by fast food workers who couldn't give a shit. I don't know if they give a shit at Tabora, but it sure seems like it. It's small and it can be a pain in the ass waiting in line some nights as there is simply the cooking area and room for a handful of people to order. Normally, you get your food and stand or sit (if the chairs aren't already taken) outside at the tables or simply go for a walk. That's my only complaint, there's no where to really chill with your fries. I'd prefer a dark corner so that no one sees me at my most grotesque.

Protest Day!

Some time in the afternoon today I started to hear loud booms and what sounded like explosions or gunfire. Then the helicopters started flying by. I honestly had no idea what the hell was going on, and as I had no reason to leave the house, I remained nude and listened with interest as I made spaghetti (a risky, but worthwhile endeavor). I figured it was just another "event" here in Brussels, of which there are many thrown sporadically through out any and every month. It could be a free concert, a Francophone day, a Flemand day, or "just another reason to take off work day".

As the booms started getting louder I started to think the Flemands had finally gotten angry enough to start some shit, so I started texting around and asking what was happening. Fireworks are usually a night time thing. For a second, I even wondered if there'd been another bank robbery down the road.

Nope, it was just approximately 100,000 people protesting the government slashing salaries, employment, and pensions/retirement. Politics over here can get hazy and confusing but essentially what the unions are saying is that the banks fucked up and the common man shouldn't have to pay for it. Hey, that's not so foreign after all! Sounds familiar. Except I don't remember anybody marching the streets of America these past few years. Unfortunately, our protest phallus is forever flaccid.

I was a little bitter when I found out this went on today and I didn't get to at least witness it, because this is the type of stuff I wish us Americans would do -- show up and be counted for when it comes to our government being lazy, inept, or corrupt. But all we can ever seem to do is put our hopes in a politician's hands and then quickly wash our own of the situation. He's successful, he got the American dream to work for him. Maybe he'll get it to work for us!

The classy European style of protest complete with Eyes Wide Shut orgy masks. After the march it's off to enjoy some beer, frites, and some other dude's wife!

I can't even find a real job over here, so I'm not sure I should have a say in anything protest-wise. I don't feel like it's my place to join in on things like that when I can barely understand the politics of Belgium itself, let alone the entire EU. Ideally, any time would be the right time to protest rich fuckers getting richer and the poor getting poorer, but I'm not really an idealist. I don't know what I am. Lately I've just been gassy.

I do know one thing: if there's any reason to head out and protest it's to piss of the Belgian police force. What a bunch of complete dickheads. I never seem to hear anything good about them -- ever. Whether it's the guy whose car was stolen at gunpoint and who was essentially told to "screw off", or the new classmate I have who traded one regular stalker for two police stalkers after she went to file a complaint (she still gets SMS's from those guys) none of the stories are good ones. I asked for directions once and had to give justification for where I wanted to go, but the icing on the cake was when I saw a cop literally get bribed in front of me after a drug transaction. What role models, these guys. They really have taken the whole "uniform = asshole" thing to a whole new level. Like they're playing catch up with the Americans or something.

At least the Brussels protest wasn't as bad as those in Spain (or as good, I'll let you be the judge of flaming police cars and flailing batons).

But I'll end this with a legitimate question. Do plainclothes police beat any harder than regular cops? I mean, your average pig has the uniform to help with the small man complex, but what about the guys pretending to be normal human beings?

Bonne Nuit

Seems to be a high or insane person walking around Porte De Namur tonight screaming random shit at the top of their lungs. Could be either/or , I don't know. Probably too much coke. I think they're shouting "Viens!" or "Come here!" The police won't come because they never do -- not that I'd bother calling them. They're useless, after all. Unless you need them at 5am on a Sunday yelling through their loudspeakers and sounding their sirens.

Sometimes I wonder about the homeless. You see some in the center, but not here. Actually, just one... there's a guy named Maurice that I've given beer or fries or money to on various occasions -- he sleeps in a small garage down the road. He's quiet so nobody bothers him. I saw him pissing in traffic at noon, once, but that isn't loud, so people don't care. He seems nice enough and I wonder what his story is and what he does when he hears animals screaming in the night. Does he pull his blanket up over his eyes and hope it all goes away or does his insanity just mix with theirs?

When I first got here and realized his situation, I'd offer him change or food. One day I even bothered to ask him his name. How naïve of me. After a while there isn't a point: He stays in the same place, nobody does anything, neither do you, neither does he. I've seen others give him food or whatever, but the last time I can remember the public interacting with him was through me. I entered his "cave" to offer him the extra food I got at a kebab shop and on my way out some dudes insinuated I was in there getting a blow job. Normally I'd shrug off shitty humor like that but I didn't let it go because I couldn't understand why a person would be so callous. I stupidly tried to instigate something but my horrible French just confused them and they walked off. For the best.

Viens! VIENS!

I guess it's a good night to wander and scream if that's your thing. The streets are empty. Today was some sort of Francophonian holiday, so I didn't have to go to school. I don't think anyone did. I'm sure somewhere there are Flemands cursing in dutch about how lazy they all are. Or is it we... am I one of them now? I guess so.

Speaking of the neighborhood, we've got a pretty nice church just around the corner called St. Boniface. Since I've lived here the damn thing has been under repair or cleaning non stop. Only just this week have they taken off the fencing and construction facade covering it all up. I may not appreciate religion but I can appreciate art and I'm kinda proud to live here. Even with weirdos like me and Maurice hanging around.

Viens!

Saint-Valery-sur-Somme

The father-in-law & Marine's sort-of-step-mom have decided to split, so a bit of house cleaning was required this weekend. I don't know if I've ever mentioned the step-mom, before. Where to start? She once told me the story of how she lost her virginity; she was 15 and an older gentleman bought her a lemonade. He then took her up to his hotel room where he nailed her. I guess that sums up a lot about her, actually. The French, even. Often while drunk she would force me to dance with her to Talk Talk's "It's My Life" or other 80's hits, an attempt to relive her youth where she was young and blond and drank lemonade and got fucked.

People don't like to move on, it's natural. Last winter I actually spent a couple of months in the house with her because I had no where else to go. She drank a lot of wine and watched a lot of Bewitched. I think she wished she was Samantha so she could wiggle her nose and make everything in her life OK again, back to when they might have even looked a bit alike. But not any more. Now, she talks a lot about her rich Dutch ex-husband, a suspected pederast, who absconded to Japan. According to her, that left her a shell of her former self. I won't argue, it's all pretty depressing.

It wasn't all bad this time. I think she was happy to have the house cleaned out. We even got some free stuff. Some Village People vinyls were salvaged and I snagged a Mickey Mouse phone that nobody wanted. I don't know if I want it either, but there was something sad about that mouse just sitting up there in the attic, waiting so patiently for someone to answer the phone.

After that, we ended up staying in Saint-Valery since Marine's grandma owns a summer house there.

Saint-Valery-sur-Somme looks like your average little port town. It's a place for old French people to use as a summer home and basecamp to gossip from, and a place for families to spend a bit of their vacation. The tourists are from other parts of France, or Spain or Britain -- lots of British -- who come with cameras hanging around their necks, waiting for the perfect sunset so that they can capture it and take it home to bore the shit out of their friends and family. A lot of the old houses have maritime motifs just like you might find somewhere in Florida. An old fishing net hangs from a rafter in our attic-bedroom, picture frames are lined with seashells and doors have the anchor or boat wheels decor. I can't tell if it's a caricature of itself or if it's just so fucking genuine that I can't swallow it. That's what I get for growing up in a country dotted with Red Lobsters. Cynicism and suspicion.

But there are old and winding streets that weave up and down hills, and an inlet where you can watch rich people take their boats out to sea. Across the inlet is another town and when the tide goes out, you can practically walk across to it. It's when the tide comes in that people drown, the currents sucking them out to sea. Down the road is putt-putt golf and occasionally during the summer they'll have musicians come around to play the usual family-friendly blues crap. In the restaurants stretched along the waterfront you'll find people eating the seafood you'd find anywhere. Mussels, shrimp, fish. Whatever the French can find buried in the sand. If you can manage to forget the other people, it's nice to take a walk along the water or through the town -- I like the old architecture and the sides of buildings that have been painted with now-faded liquor advertisements.

Aside from the aesthetic beauty, though, it's pretty damn boring. Like most cities or towns in the north of France, it's small. Very small. OF course, that doesn't stop people from coming and it never has.

My wife's people, the Guals, were here well before ol' J.C. was born, and so were the Romans, who came in to conquer them. And then William the Conqueror sailed off from here in 1066 to, well, conquer the absolute shit out of the British. The house we stay in was built in something like 1860. The cellar was built in 1231. Much like the small and winding roads that barely accomodate cars, the architecture in a lot of the houses seem to barely accomodate people; I've managed to hit my head in both the attic and the cellar now -- both, painful souvenirs. But it does have a cozy feel and there are layers of history everywhere, which is a little overwhelming to me. I mean, Joan of Arc passed through this place, maybe even had a tinkle down the road.

How old is that wall? When was this built? Why, and by whom? Lots of questions no one can answer, because nobody really cares. I love history and I know I'm lucky to be over here, but for someone like me, European towns like this are just frustrating. There's nothing tangible. Some times it just feels like a lived-in old house. You put up with the wear the others put on it and then you move on. Sure, it's neat to see "Jacques X, 1644" etched into a wall, it's nice to sit and imagine the story of the person and what times were like back then, but that's all your doing because it's all in your head. There's no story to be told. The artifact to find here is the town itself, the only problem is sharing it with everyone else.

I keep having to tell myself, "This is France, man. People have lived here for a long time and they're going to continue to live here. That's it."

Me, I want to get out there and discover it all each time I come here. I want to explore and get dirty and find things nobody has seen in years, mysterious things that have secret stories that can never be told, because their owners are long since dead. All that silly, romantic crap.

It's too bad I can't just be happy where I'm at. Maybe someday when I'm old, too.

FIFA Cup full o' Goat Meat

So, Ted came to visit on his way to Seoul for a week or so. Traveling with Ted is always interesting. Some times I want to kick him in the balls over the small things, but it's a mutual feeling and one that seems to be a normal part of our 17 or so year-old relationship. Fuck, we're getting old. Anyway, I can't say I would have traveled to Dinant alone and gotten (relatively) lost in the forest behind the citadel, nor would I have searched for the remnants of the Leffe abbey and ended up watching a group of monks clad in white robes do their daily chanting. That was fun and utterly bizarre, as was the night life here in BXL which would often find us sharing a smoke under the psychadelic lights near the center. I was happy to show Ted around to the few places I knew about. I think by the time he left he had eaten Belgian frites, chocolate, mussels. Pakistani night-shop chicken from Tandooriland down the street. African, Brazilian, and who knows what. I even brought him along to one of my English classes and the couple were nice enough to feed both of us, so I guess he got his Francophonian gourmet on too.

I think our best discovery, though, was just here in Matongè where I live. Normally, when I go to grab some African food, it's cheap takeaway - 5€ for all the good stuff and chicken or tilapia. But seeing as Teddy was visiting and we wanted to watch America in the FIFA matches, we splurged and ended up going to sit down and eat. Bit more expensive, but for 10€ you get the meat of the gods. Goat meat. I don't think we were really in a sober state of mind when we first ordered it, because, well, who is when you look at a menu and decide Goat to be the best option? But sweet jesus was it good when we started eating it. I don't know what they do to it - marinade it, or what - but I'd say it rivaled or surpassed some of the best ribs I've had in the states. Course, you end up having to pay for a drink and then whatever else they might swindle you into buying... rice or plantains... but it's worth it. Never thought I'd find myself celebrating (or lamenting?) the wonders of goat meat in my life time, but here I am.

And then as quickly as Ted appeared, he vanished, off to do whatever Ted does. Who knows, he seemed in an adventurous mood. Maybe he decided to progressively step things up the further East he traveled. I haven't really heard from him since. I envision him in an opium lounge somewhere in Turkey dining on human flesh, or sitting in a communist prison in China, taking lots of pictures. I guess we'll see.

Speaking of communism, half way through the North Korea-Portugal match I expected the Koreans to give up and start eating handfuls of grass on the field, tears streaming from their eyes. Eat what you can while you have it, boys. Because someone, somewhere is going to get tortured for that absolute ass-thrashing and it's probably your family back in the Motherland. You don't get sent to represent Kim Jong Il to all the world and then lose 7 - nil. Actually, I think it's just a good rule of thumb to not represent Kim Jong Il at all, but that's hindsight, and dictatorship.

And now the US has lost to an African team-- a hard night for me, living here. In honor of Ted I would return to our table at Chez Ya Peggy and order goat from "mama", cheering on the US of A. I was the only white guy in the little restaurant and when we scored a goal my arms sprung into the air and everyone turned to look at me. I just shrugged with a smile. But by the end of the night, it was the Zairians or Congolese and maybe even a stray Ghanan blowing on their vuvuzelas and cheering on our defeat. Take that, white man.

And then Ghana lost to Uruguay yesterday and their cheering and tooting has since ceased. Sorry guys, how's it taste now? Not nearly as good as goat, I know that. At least we can all take solace in the fact that Brazil lost, and we all did better than England. For those watching, I don't think the FIFA cup is even as much about the sport as it is about cheering on your country and praying for the doom of others out of spite. It's the type of stuff that brings people together. I was happy I got to experience it here in Europe and with an old friend, to boot.

Now who else is going to come visit?

I'll update with some pics later when I'm not being lazy

And now...

So, I think I fucked up my French exam. I have another coming up, but that's kind of like waiting for the second wave to hit while you're still holding your breath. I'm just hoping it tosses me onto the sand. I'll try my best anyway.

But that brings to mind what I will do during the "vacancies". After the big test, I'm just here and the wife is wherever she gets accepted to for training.

I thought about some strange Nordic land where I'd freeze all day, eat fermented fish, and drink strange liquor with the locals but in retrospect it sounds like Stalingrad 1943 and so, no. Scandinavia is probably a no-go especially since I have no fucking money. Western Europe may be half the size of the US but it's just as expensive when it comes to travel.

Maybe I'll join a farm somewhere for a few weeks and live off the fat of the land. Or perhaps I will join a commune, where I will live off of the fat of other humans that we have butchered because communes are fucking weird. No one can tell. Not even me. I hope it is none of those, actually.

Fricadelles and war machines

Occassionally, when I'm in a rush and on my way to class I'll run into Carrefour (fun fact: means crossroads), one of the larger grocery store chains, in search of something to stop the continous rumbling coming from my gut. I hate it when absolute silence in a room full of people is pierced by the sound of my stomach begging for sustenance. That's when I regret not having the bowl of cereal or whatever.

Alas, I am your typical carnivore-style male and I prefer the protein punch to give me the energy in the morning instead. I still sometimes wistfully dream of the Irish breakfasts I've had that kept me full of energy... and presumably cholesterol. (See this for an example...) Anyway, I can't stand eating sweet things in the morning, which is what the French race seems to run on. Lots of dairy and cookies or bread or whatever. My wife seems to love speculoos cookies, for instance. So of course I walked near the fresh baked bread and pastries and what did I spy wrapped in flakey bread? MEAT. Or as I would later find out, a fricadelle (frikandel for the dutch).

If that looks too appetizing, here it is without bread.

There are a lot of sausages from a lot of different places, so that didn't raise my eyebrows or anything, but I shoulda known better when my wife told me once "we don't know what meat is in there". By we, she seemed to mean everyone else in the country. But I love the things, they're quick and easy and taste good. Outside, it's the consistency of a regular sausage and inside it's sort of... grey. The appearance threw me off cause I thought it was breakfast food; silly me... I'm in Belgium, meat for breakfast? Course not. It's meat for lunch, that's why it was sitting next to the mini-pizzas!

You can even find them in kebab shops. Usually I eat them as they are while walking to class, but apparently in the Netherlands and Germany people will eat them sans-bread with mayo, ketchup, onions, etc. Sounds sorta familiar, right?

I think you see where I'm going with this: it turns out that the fricadelle is pretty much the euro equivalent of the hot dog, and I've been happily eating them for breakfast for like a month now. The frightening part being, they are rumored to have the same quality of meat in them as some of the shadier hot dogs in the States except the horse, as I have pointed out before, is still eaten over here. Yep, a growin' boy gotta eat his recycled mystery meat! The fact that I've been sandwiching them inside of the noble croissant is probably worthy of some sort of public punishment in France.

At least maybe I countered some of the pig balls and horse jaw meat by walking around the giant musée militaire here in Brussels. I went there yesterday with some classmates for the second time, and I still haven't really had the time to take in everything. It's free, so I'll be going back. I could spend all fucking day in there and I mean that literally, I'd have no problem with staying there all day and sleeping there as well. I can easily see myself donning Napeolionic-era armor with bullet dents in it and passing out on a Nazi tank with a fricadelle in one hand and a Kwak in the other.

The wife is kickinh my fat ass off the computer so I shall write more about meat later