There is no bacon aisle in the Netherlands.
Let me rephrase that: there’s no bacon experience. No wall of options. No curated boutique of hickory-smoked, maple-glazed, thick-cut, double-applewood, black peppercorn, sugar-free, nitrate-free artisan pig strips wrapped in eco-conscious packaging and sealed with a little American flag in the corner.
Nope.
In the Dutch grocery store—specifically my local Albert Heijn—there are exactly two options:
• Round bacon.
• Strip bacon.
That’s it. No brands. No gimmicks. No flavors. It’s not “from somewhere.” It’s not massaged with brown sugar and rosemary. It’s just bacon. Dutch bacon. Albert Heijn’s bacon. Take it or leave it.
That moment—standing in front of a single sad little refrigerated section—was the first time I felt culturally disarmed in a Dutch grocery store.
And it wasn’t the last.
The Great Coffee Creamer Tragedy
Let’s talk about coffee creamer.
Or rather, let’s talk about how it doesn’t exist here.
I don’t mean milk. Or plant-based alternatives. I mean the real stuff—those chemical-laced, shelf-stable, American concoctions with names like Chocolate and Caramel, Peppermint Mocha, or Fruity Pebbles (which is real and amazing). The kind of stuff that tastes like dessert and self-loathing.
In the U.S., I had my go-to: Coffee Mate Italian Sweet Crème, which is relatively tame in relation to all the other absurd flavors. They had entire aisles dedicated to it, and in bottles the size of two liter soda. Here? Not a trace. Not even the boring ones. I searched every shelf in every grocery store for months.
Eventually, I gave up. I now drink my coffee like a civilized European—with steamed milk or oat milk, quietly mourning the overprocessed joy I once had.
Cereal Aisles Built for Grown-Ups
The cereal aisle was my next wake-up call.
In America, cereal is a Saturday morning sugar carnival. It’s loud, nostalgic, and deeply unserious. There are literally dozens of options screaming at you with cartoon mascots and bold colors and promises like “Now With DOUBLE Marshmallows!” and “Turns Milk Blue!”
Here in the Netherlands?
You get like six choices. Maybe seven if someone messed up the stock rotation. A couple kinds of muesli. Some cornflakes. A knockoff Cocoa Puff situation. That’s your lineup.
No mascots. No marshmallow madness. No paralyzing choice fatigue.
You just pick the cereal. And move on with your life.
The Turkey Treasure Hunt
And then there was turkey.
I went months thinking the Netherlands just… didn’t have it. I checked every meat section in every Albert Heijn, thinking maybe it was seasonal, or maybe turkey just wasn’t a thing here. Turns out, it is—but it’s hidden. Quiet. Humble. And when you finally find it? There’s just one kind.
One sad little packet of sliced turkey. No brands. No honey-roasted, peppered, smoked, low-sodium, organic, or mesquite-grilled options. No deli counter employee asking how thick you want it sliced. Just… turkey. The Dutch grocery store version of “we got what we got.”
Fewer Choices, More Sanity
At first, I found it mildly infuriating. Where was my freedom? My expression? My consumer identity?
But somewhere along the line, I realized: this is actually kind of… great?
I don’t waste time wandering. I don’t second-guess every item. I don’t impulse-buy a $7 bag of maple bacon kettle chips because the package looked like a flannel shirt and whispered “man snack” at me.
I just shop. I get what I need. I go home.
The Dutch grocery store isn’t here to delight or seduce me. It’s not trying to reinvent my personality through frozen pizza choices. It’s here to function. To serve. To keep you fed.
There’s something weirdly liberating about that. Something quiet and adult.
Dutch Grocery Store Differences That Hit Me Hard
I came to the Netherlands expecting cultural adjustment, sure.
Language, weather, transportation, maybe.
But not this.
Not the bacon.
Not the coffee creamer void.
Not the cereal aisle that feels more like a health food corner than a Candyland vortex of childhood memories.
And yet, here I am. Shopping in a grocery store that doesn’t want to distract me, overwhelm me, or sell me twenty variations of the same thing. Just food. Just what I need. No more, no less.
And honestly?
That might be the most surprisingly beautiful thing I’ve experienced since moving here.
