Meat and Sauce, Eel and green crap and lets not even talk about England part 1

Ok let me start straight off by saying there are people excluded from this oncoming culinary diatribe, They are Firstly and foremost my girlfriends mother Monica Kulig who cooked and fed me like a king before we departed Mielec, wonderful Rosol, huge breakfasts and a magical cheescake. It is also worth Acknowledging a wonderful impromptu spaghetti cooked by Paul after a late arrival on a thursday evening following a madcap trip around Brussels city centre, which during this trip Joanna Kulig(thats her name if any Belgian traffic enforcement officers are reading this) preceeded to break every imaginable traffic laws the good Belgians ever saw fit to pass.
It would also be remiss of me not to mention the wonderful Salmon dish Joanna's aunt Magda made us before we left Brussels. Everyone else get ready this will not be pretty.
The Chech republic, Germany, Belgium, England and Ireland what is going on, did all the decent cooks in these countries leave as we traversed are way through them.
In Germanys case they have an excuse, as at all their service stations they have obviously been concentrating on the installation of machines that sell you a delightful little product called The travel pussy, to waste fruitless hours worring about the standard of food that is available. On arrival in the beautiful  town of Bamberg ready to eat some wonderful Bavarian fayre. We found a lovely little place in the winding streets of this unesco protected haven, Where Joanna ordered a dish that we had got to know well over the preceeding days. It is called something different every time depending on where you order it, allow me translate. It is called a dish of indiscernible meat, accompanied by an indiscernible brown sauce, garnished with an indiscernible splodge masquerading as a dumpling. We both enjoyed this dish the day before in Prague as well lovely.
leaving Germany we crossed the border into Belgium, my tastebuds started to tingle, Belgium famous for its culinary connections with France we would dine like Kings and Queens over the next two days ohh yes. Anyway that was what i told Joanna anyway. She did not appear to be overly interested in my wafflings, as after over 6 hours driving, an extra hour of that driving due to my eccentric directions it became apparent that the Belgians were so eco conscious that they had eliminated the need altogether for a servie station. petrol was low, nature was calling us both more loudly by the minute, then finally after and hour was this a mirage? no indeed we were approaching a petrol station, salvartion, for both the zafira's depleted tank and our swollen bladders.
During this trip the stop at the petrol station was one of my favourite moments in the day. It was a moment that allowed me to show off my male skills, as i had been deemed competent enough be entrusted with the task of "filling the tank". the rest of the trip was a lesson in humilliating emasculation. I couldn't drive, my map reading was not altogether without fault, so an opportunity to stand there posturing with a giant hose in my hand was my alpha male moment. I strode out of the car with purpose approaching the petrol pump, taking the hose in my hand (this is getting worryingly homo erotic) and unscrewed the petrol cap like a seasoned driver, i pulled the trigger like Dirty Harry, nothing happened.
It was at this stage that i found out in Belgium one has to pay before you pump so to speak.
Now starting to feel irritated i ask the cashier why the pump isn't working, the cashier looks at me then in a face all europeans reserve for the English and their primative language skills, slowly explains to me that in Belgium you have to pay first, so how much do i want to put in?
I start to sweat the tank is about half full, i have no idea how much it takes to fill up half a tank, not in Euros or pounds or any other currency. I am going to be found out, he will know within a second that not only do i not know how much petrol i need, but that i do not no how to drive either, that i made us get of at the wrong junction in Rhineland, that i speak none of the languages of any of the countries we have driven through, that if it wasnt for Joanna i would still be waiting for a train in Krakow.
I need to get a grip, i look bernard the cashier dead in they eye and say almost flippantly 80 euros, he doesn't bat an eye, i hand over the money march back outside, glare at Joanna and start to fill up the tank, then disaster, after about 30 euros its full. Unable to cope with the humilliation i shout at Joanna, go to the toilet and refuse to eat the sandwich she has bought, Dejected and emasculated i head back to the car, we don't speak till Brussels.....