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Published: June 10th 2006
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Ever since seeing Pulp Fiction in 1994 I've always wondered if Vincent Vega was tellng the truth. That is, whether, in Holland, they actually do put mayonnaise, instead of ketchup, on their French fries. Its been bugging me for the last 12 years and, as no one could give me a conclusive answer, I finally decided to head over to Europe and find out for myself.
I began my search for the Truth About the Fries in The Hague, otherwise known as the former home of the late Slobodan Milosevic. Í'll go out on a limb here and say from the outset that I've probably found my stay here to be more enjoyable than that of the late Mr Milosevic. But who knows. He had 5 years and I've only been here for about 4 days so it could be a whole apple and oranges thing.
After 2 flights, a train ride, and 30-odd hours in the same clothes I found myself at the place that most Aussie travellers find themselves - at the pub. Full of expats. And drinking Guinness in a land where that are so many unique beers that I've never tried. Yes, my mate, Kate,
who I've been staying with, stayed true to her Irish roots and took me to one of two Irish pubs in The Hague. I felt like I'd taken a 30 hour trip to Scruffy Murphys.
After catching up over a couple of quiet ones it was time to catch a train to Rotterdam where Kate was to meet up with some of her mates. Fighting off the jetlag I followed Kate as she led me through the streets of Rotterdam in a half daze. I was awake enough to notice that Rotterdam is a modern city, rebuilt after being destroyed during the war and, as a result, lacking the charm of The Hague's old city centre. When I next looked up it was at a sign that read O"Casey's. Yes, we'd ended up at yet another Irish pub. This time it felt like I'd travelled 36 hours, only to end up at PJ O'Gallaghers. At least this time I opted for the Grolsch instead of the Guinness.
Day 2 saw me off to the Australia v Netherlands football friendly at Feyonoord Stadium, again in Rotterdam. For those who watched the game at home you probably saw a glimpse
of me in the crowd. I would've been easy to spot - the only bloke wearing a gold football jersey amidst a sea of 55,000 people wearing bright orange. I know, I know - I stood out like a sore thumb. I'll try not to look like such a tourist from now on and blend in a bit more. A 1-all draw meant I didn't get pelted with stones and beer glasses as I left the stadium.
Apparently news of coming preceded me and the locals decided to put on a little music number to welcome me. Well OK, if you want to call a 3-day music festival a bit more than a little music number, I won't complain. So, day 3 was spent in some field in the middle of nowhere near the Netherlands-German border at the Pinkpop festival, listening to acts like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Franz Ferdinand, Keane, and Nickleback, whilst getting sunburnt. A 3 hour bus trip after the festival got us back to The Hague at 4 in the morning and there was no time like the present to start the Search for the Truth about the Fries which, because of my hectic
schedule, had stalled since my arrival. I stumbled across a place called Herring King which, was not only open, but which was selling all manner of fried goodess - croquettes, sausages, rissoles, fish cakes, and, unusually, herring sandwiches. I did enough gesticulating to order a serve of fries and deliberately didn't'specify a sauce to see what would unfold. A tray of greasy fries appeared minutes later covered in a thick, brown sauce. As my stomach, which had been filled with beer and festival food garbage all day long, churned in anticipation I sent a chip dripping with the mud-like sludge directly towards my taste buds. The verdict...satay sauce. This country is full of surprises.
The following day I resisted the urge to put in some hours at the International Court of Justice and headed to Amsterdam instead. It can't be all work, work, work. I arrived in the early morning and felt the need for a wake up call so I stopped by at the nearest coffee shop. I knew it was part of a reputable chain as I'd seen many other shops with the same logo of a leaf in the window. As I sat waiting for my coffee I detected a funny smell in the air. I couldn't place it. It was particularly smokey too. I put it down to not drinking coffee very often and being unfamilar with the smell of different coffee beans and headed back out into the streets of Amsterdam.
I spent the morning wandering through the quaint streets, admiring the beautiful architecture and pretty canals. A stop at the Van Gogh museum meant that, together with the Pinkpop festival, I can now tell everyone back home that I experienced the cultural delights of Europe. Next stop was the Heineken Experience, which is a self-guided tour of the Heineken factory. Something must've gotten lost in the translation by the lady at the ticket counter. Apparently "self-guided" doesn't mean putting your mouth under the beer taps. Last stop of the day was Amsterdam's famous Red Light District. I had plenty of time to ponder why it was called that as I stood at the kerb across from the district, waiting for the lights to turn green. In the end I gave up and walked back to the station. Some ladies wearing very little clothing and standing in small, glass-fronted cubicles waved as I bade farewell to the Dutch capital.
What does one do on their fifth day in the Netherlands? Head to the beach of course. Yes, apparently the coastal suburb of Schevinengen is a mecca for beach goers in summertime. Don't ask me why. I personally didn't dip a toe in but it probably has something to do with the bath-like warm waters of the North Sea. Whilst walking along the promenade, which brought back memories of the tackyness of the Gold Coast, I was brought out of my reverie by a frittur - a fries shop. Undeterred by the satay sauce gloop that remained stuck to innards and gradually eroding my stomach lining I ordered another serve of fries and, again, left the sauce of choice in the hands of the vendor. The fries appeared this time, covered in a glistening, creamy white sauce. I brought a chip dipped in the sauce to my tongue. Tangy. Yet sweet. Ahhh...mayonnaise. The Search was over and Vincent was, indeed, telling the truth.
I couldn't wait to tell Vincent I was sorry for doubting him. And tell Jules Winfield that Vincent was telling the truth. Until I realised that Vincent had been shot by Butch. And that Jules was walking the earth like Caine in "Kung Fu". And that Pulp Fiction was actually a movie and none of these people are real.
Now that the Search is over what shall I do now that I'm over here? I'm sure I'll think of something. I think there's this little event called the 2006 World Cup on at the same time. I might check it out...
*Special thanks to Quentin Tarantino, Roger Avery and Miramax Films for their assistance with this blog.
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HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Derek you are a total crack-up. I'm just worried about Pat and Karina now thinking i'm a total freak for laughing out loud to a computer. your emails are hilarious mate. umm, sorry, i'm not too familiar with Pulp Fiction - i watched it about 10 yrs ago and fell asleep after 20 mins...don't kill me, i could have been tired! i've been Holland mate and i liked it - Amsterdam takes the cake though. it's, ah, every interesting - and i do remember some ladies with v. little clothing also - the extra curricular activities they have there are mind blowing!! Aust. v. Brazil Mon @ 2AM - you know i'll be at circular quay for that one and i'll be looking out for you in the crowd mate. Take care, stay safe, have fun, live it up, get pissed, get drunk and keep in touch mate!! CC