We beat you, we eat you.
Them’s the rules at my house. (It’s not quite as weird as it sounds, I promise!)
#WeBeatYouWeEatYou is my family’s deliciously silly World Cup tradition by which we toast all of Holland’s World Cup victories by feasting on cuisine from the nations of the teams the Oranje have defeated.
That means, since the Netherlands beat Senegal 2-0 on Nov. 21, we’ve been sipping a Senegalese coffee called Cafe Touba in the mornings and sneaking Senegalese Begue ginger candy throughout the day. (Highly recommend, if you like ginger!)
It means this week, after Holland closed out Group A with a 2-0 victory over Qatar, we enjoyed an entrée called chicken Kabsa from an amazing little spot called Soriana Halal Restaurant in Los Angeles, because that Saudi Arabian dish was as close as I could find to Qatari chicken Machboos within driving distance.
And, yep, it means burgers are on the menu on Saturday night after Holland beats America in the Round of 16.
Wait a minute, you’re saying. Hold the mayo. (Ooh! You gotta try mayonnaise with fries; so good.)
USA vs. NED, and we’re rooting for Holland? Why on Earth?
Boils down to my mom being Dutch, and having lived in the Netherlands when I was a kid.
No, I haven’t retained the language, but, yes, I did have a pair of wooden shoes. Also, I grew up eating oliebollen and appelflappen at New Year’s, thinking it perfectly normal to dust my morning toast with chocolate sprinkles, and yes, I actually think black licorice is good.
My very first taste of sports revelry was served up by a Dutch athlete: Yvonne Van Gennip, a speedskater whose three gold medals at the 1988 Winter Olympics inspired 9-year-old me so much in my living room in Fontana that I fell in love with the idea sportswriting – a sweet job that, ironically and pretty immediately, ruined my appetite for fandom.
Except for this. Oranje football is about the only way I still can find that feeling of unfettered joy when a goal finds the back of the net.
Maybe, misschien, it’s the distance? It’s always seemed I was so far removed from any possibility of writing about a Dutch team at a World Cup (chewing on that now) that it allowed my heart to want what it wanted: To cheer. To root, root, root for my mom’s team.
To party after each victory, and that tiny country – the 135th smallest on the planet – has produced plenty of opportunities.
Like America’s, Holland’s reservation to the World Cup was canceled in 2018. But before then, in 2010, the Dutch won six matches en route to the World Cup final against Spain. Four years later, they came out on top six more times on the way to a third-place finish, beating Brazil in the consolation match after Argentina KO’d Holland on penalty kicks in the semifinal.
The Dutch women have handled the heat too, winning six matches in 2019 to reach the final at the Women’s World Cup – where they were beaten by America.
What happens when you beat us? Well, we eat us, of course. Poffertjes (mini pancakes) make for fine comfort food and, yes, I’d have a Heineken to drown my sorrow.
But along the way we’ve stuffed ourselves with Mexican tacos and sampled Costa Rican spice-rubbed swordfish. Splurged on Brazilian churrascaria and raided World Market for candies and sauvignon blanc from New Zealand. We tried to make Cameroonian puff-puff and went and found Canadian poutine in Sherman Oaks.
We’ve had sushi (arigatou, Japan!) and spaghetti (grazie, Italy!). Even Swedish meatballs from Ikea.
Peeking at the now-complete knockout bracket, my husband is salivating over a potential semifinal date with Brazil. And, sure, wouldn’t it be grand to commemorate Holland’s first World Cup championship with a fine French meal?
But every sports fan knows: You’ve gotta take it one bite at a time.
This postgame routine we’ve cooked up isn’t us thirsting for enemy tears. It’s not a matter of sprinkling salt on anyone’s wounds or a desire to go dancing on an opponent’s gravy.
It’s that stop at your favorite spot on the way home from a big win on the road, a reward for a job well done, a victory heartily willed.
It’s a celebration – and an exploration – of humanity’s wide and varied cuisine, with the world’s greatest tournament setting the table, and often, Southern California, with its diversity of culture and cuisine, coming through in the clutch.
Also it might be an extra carrot to keep my kids fully invested: “Do we play Japan? Because I want sushi!”
Think of it as enhanced World Cup viewing, wherein the third dimension is more about levels of delectable than depth perception. Our focus more keenly on the sense of taste than sight – fitting this year because Nike’s Dutch kits, more gold than orange, are utterly distasteful, like messing up breakfast.
People on both sides of the pond have asked me this week who I’ll be pulling for Saturday, as if it’s a tough call.
Deciding where to have lunch with coworkers requires more deliberation, even though I’ve quite enjoyed this American squad: These are the guys who agreed to share their World Cup bonuses with the women’s national team for the sake of equity, at long last. And how impressive has Tyler Adams been, with his ability to put out fires on and off the pitch? Is it any surprise how dynamic the Holland-born Sergiño Dest has been? And the, uh, guts on Christian Pulisic!
There’s a sense that this will be a winnable match for the United States, never mind the Netherlands’ 18-match unbeaten streak and its brilliant young winger Cody Gakpo, who has scored in every World Cup match so far.
Despite winning its group, Holland hasn’t exactly sizzled. And word from my people there is that even the typically exuberant Dutch fans are all more low-key this time, because it’s wintertime and too cold for garden parties, plus everyone is focused on Sinterklaas and their studies. All the human rights issues in Qatar have dampened the mood, too.
Still, my orange-clad crew here in Southern California, though perhaps overdressed for the occasion, remain committed to doing our part by filling our bellies.
Though I am bummed to be meeting the United States already in the first knockout match.
I mean, burgers? That’s just a Monday after AYSO practice.
