Brussels

Belgium is a country with an identity problem, and the only thing everyone here agrees on is fries � frites in French, frietes in Flemish. Fries are such a national obsession (Belgians insist that their country is the birthplace of the golden-fried potato), there's a website � www.frites.be � with recipes and even jokes about them. Whether Belgium's preceded all the other fries in the world is up for debate, but it's hard to take issue with the assertion that they are the best. Why? Belgians insist that the best frites come from Bintje potatoes, a soft and slightly sweet variety, and that the key to excellence is double-frying with clean suet, which gives the final product its signature color and crunch.

Locals consume their frites in the open air, which has cast the snack in the role of social equalizer. It's hard to act aloof standing at a friterie or fritkot, one of the country's 1,200 or so trailer stands (some shaped like rocket ships or crowned with glowing cones of neon frites), juggling napkins and dripping tartar down your shirt. Then there's the list of sauces: The original condiments were mayonnaise and piccalilli (pickle relish), but today you can choose from a much larger variety: Br�sil (ketchup with crushed pineapple), andalouse (tomato paste, chopped onion, lemon juice, red or green pepper, and mayonnaise), samoura� (with hot pepper), chinoise (soy and duck sauces added to plain ketchup), and carbonnade (made with Flemish beer), to name but a few.

Whatever you do, don't underestimate the seriousness with which the locals take their frites. In Verona, they say, you side with the Capulets or the Montagues; in Brussels, you are a fan either of Flagey or of Maison Antoine, and there is an equal amount of passion in both camps. We actually like both places, but, while not wanting to take sides, we have to admit that we can't get enough of the crisp beauties at Antoine's, a landmark stand in the Place Jourdan. The first time we ordered Antoine's frites (and, at the suggestion of a man behind us, a Hawaiian Punch-like canned drink), they arrived in a tight paper cone, and we knew after a single bite that they were nothing short of spectacular. Hot, grease-free, ideally salted, crisp, and with a homemade tartar sauce of garlic, chopped pickle, and parsley, they made even the hibiscus-colored beverage go down with the same natural elegance as a vintage Pomerol accompanying roast lamb.