It started, like most of my family’s travel disasters, with my dad’s unwavering confidence in his drinking abilities.
“C’mon, guys,” he said, rolling up his sleeves like he was about to do manual labor. “I’ve been drinking Heineken for years. This is going to be a walk in the park.”
My mom, ever the enabler, nodded. “How strong can Dutch beer really be? We drink IPAs at home!”
Famous last words.
Arrival at the Heineken Experience
The Heineken Experience in Amsterdam is part brewery tour, part interactive museum, and—most importantly for my parents—part unlimited beer tasting. The moment we stepped in, my dad was already giddy, like a kid walking into Disneyland, except the rides were kegs and the mascots were bartenders.
We started off strong. The tour guide, a cheerful Dutch guy named Sven, walked us through the history of Heineken, how the beer is brewed, and some very important information about the brewing process that my dad was too busy ignoring while side-eyeing the beer taps.
“Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for your first taste?” Sven asked, presenting us with our first glasses of freshly brewed Heineken.
Dad downed his like a shot. “Smooth,” he declared. “I barely even tasted that.”
Sven gave him a knowing smile. “Oh, you will.”
The First Signs of Trouble
By the time we reached the interactive beer-tasting room, my mom was already giggling at nothing, and my dad had adopted what I call his “Captain Morgan stance”—one foot up on an invisible barrel, chest puffed out, surveying the room like he was in charge.
That’s when the locals showed up.
A group of Dutch guys—tall, effortlessly cool, and apparently immune to the effects of alcohol—took the barstools next to us. They greeted Sven like old friends, ordered their beers with casual efficiency, and proceeded to sip them like they had been born in a brewery.
My dad, perhaps sensing a challenge, leaned over to my mom. “We can outdrink these guys.”
“Absolutely,” she agreed, already hiccuping.
I facepalmed.
The Descent into Madness
What followed was an absolute disaster.
First, the Dutch guys weren’t even trying to compete. They were casually enjoying their beers while my parents, in full “USA vs. The Netherlands” mode, were slamming back Heinekens like they were in a frat house.
“Another round!” my dad announced after beer #4, his words just slightly slurred.
Sven raised an eyebrow. “You sure? We have a saying in Dutch: ‘Never try to outdrink a Dutchman.’”
My dad scoffed. “Yeah? Well, in America, we have a saying: ‘Go big or go home.’”
“We also have a saying: ‘Pace yourself,’” I muttered, but no one heard me.
The Moment of Defeat
Beer #6 was where things really took a turn.
Mom started speaking in what she thought was Dutch. “Dank u, Sven! Ik ben… uh… een Heineken.”
Dad, meanwhile, was swaying slightly and blinking at the air like he was trying to manually adjust his focus.
The Dutch guys were still on beer #3, watching my parents like they were witnessing a slow-motion car crash.
And then it happened.
“Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” Dad mumbled before abruptly standing up and walking straight into a life-size cutout of Freddy Heineken.
The Aftermath
Fifteen minutes later, my parents were sitting outside the Heineken Experience on a bench, heads between their knees.
“Why is the world tilting?” my mom groaned.
“We are never drinking again,” my dad declared.
Sven appeared in the doorway, holding a small bottle of water like an angel of mercy. “Here. Dutch wisdom: Always hydrate.”
The Dutch guys strolled past, casually tipping their imaginary hats. “Good effort,” one of them said, clearly entertained.
My dad gave a weak thumbs-up.
And that, my friends, is the story of how my parents thought they could outdrink the Dutch and failed miserably.
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