Food Fright
The first time we went to Paris, Denise ordered escargot. I watched her consume the cousins of those things that slime their way across our driveway; the gastropods that make that sick crunching sound under your dress shoes when you head out in the morning darkness, late for work. And the thing is…she liked it. She says put enough butter and garlic on anything and it’ll taste good. I’m dubious.
I love France and the French – their sophisticated style, their architecture, language, history, authors and artists, their reverence for manners and respect for customs and traditions. It’s all great, except… drumroll please…haute cuisine. Yes, perhaps the one thing the French are most famous for, and I want no part of it. Yeeechh! I mean, what is it with their fascination for eating weird creatures and entrails?
So, you get the point: I’m no gastronome. In fact, the last four letters of that word – NO(t) ME – say it all. Give me a juicy burger and some fries, and I’m happy as a clam (although I can’t stand clams). I salivate at the thought of a good hot dog with sauerkraut and deli mustard. When my kids were little, I’d sneak some of their Kraft mac’n’cheese. Chicken tenders? Absolutely. And nothing beats a big plate of spaghetti and meatballs! The first word I learned before I traveled to Italy was “doppio.” Doppio is Italian for “double,” as in “double spaghetti,” or “double lasagna.” I wasn’t interested in the refined, continental menu available in the north of the country. I just wanted pasta, and lots of it.
But it’s not easy being the owner of a pedestrian palate. Potlucks can be unsettling. Dinner invitations can stress me out. I can be harangued by friends and family alike for my lack of culinary diversity and inclusion. But most problematic is when I travel internationally – I live in fear as to what might wind up on my plate.
Back in Paris we ate dinner at Le Bouillon Chartier, a revered, cavernous eatery in northeast Paris. It’s the kind of place where an unflappable waiter in a black vest tallies your bill on the butcher paper that serves as a tablecloth. It’s a high volume, quick turnover type of establishment and there is a bit of pressure to order quickly. Playing it safe, I ordered the bifteck and pomme frites. Denise ordered “Les Rognons,” which our handy dandy French-to-English dictionary informed us – too late, mind you – were kidneys. What beast donated the organs? I really didn’t care to know.
The Alsace region of France has a heavy Germanic influence in its culture. I was excited to find out that one of their local specialties is choucroute (i.e., the French version of sauerkraut). I could go for that – a big plate of sauerkraut appealed to me – that is, until I read that the meal is usually adorned with pigs’ feet, pigs’ knuckles, or various other oink oink bits. Hold the porcine accoutrements, s’il vous plait.
At our hotel in Nice we solicited dinner recommendations from the fellow at the reception desk. He was a rather cheerful English expat who recommended a place in the old town – “the locals eat there, one of the few restaurants that serve authentic Niçoise cuisine,” he said. I was happy to see pasta avec champignons on the menu – pasta with mushrooms – a pretty safe bet, right? Wrong! it might as well have been “pasta avec dirt.” Maybe it was Niçoise dirt, but it still tasted like dirt. Free advice: don’t accept restaurant recommendations from people who flee their native countries to work night shifts in tourist hotels.
Nothing, however, prepared me for our meal in Beaune. Beaune is a walled village that retains much of its medieval character. Situated in Burgundy, it’s a wine mecca and a gourmet’s delight. We scoured the town for dinner, reading the chalkboard menus, and settled for a lovely outdoor café that listed a salad, and an andouille dish, as the day’s specials. I ordered the salad. Denise ordered the andouille, and in fact I encouraged her, because I always enjoyed the breakfast omelets with andouille sausage at Seattle’s Coastal Kitchen restaurant. However, what arrived on Denise’s plate bore no resemblance. It appeared to be a floppy tube of some sort, its surface exhibiting a sort of tacky, wet texture, with some kind of granular, chunky filling inside. It emanated heat as if it was alive and the smell – OMG! We pushed the food around on our plates, pretending to be eating, and when the waiter came to give us the bill, we obscured our plates with napkins to avoid embarrassment. We quickly skulked out – sans doggie bags. Afterwards I researched this French “delicacy.” It is truly disturbing. Roadkill would have been more appetizing.
Don’t get me wrong – I’ve had some wonderful food-related experiences in France. On my very first trip to Paris, I rendezvoused with my good friends Mark and Elaine. We strolled the elegant Boulevard des Capucines looking for dinner, and passed a foursome sitting at a sidewalk café table toying with a glass bowl – actually, more like a transparent vat – of chocolate mousse. Mon Dieu! It was huge, and they barely made a dent. Surely, we could do better! Challenge accepted; we awaited chocolate nirvana after dinner. Our efforts were laudable but doomed to failure – there was just too much. Why would a restaurant willingly waste so much dessert? Or did they? I envisioned the café staff skillfully topping off the huge bowl of chocolate mousse from the previous customers before serving it to us. Passing it forward? We didn’t ask.
When Denise was six months pregnant with our first child, we decided to take one more French fling before our lives were transformed into that perpetual state of self-denial and servitude called parenthood. After eating lots of bread and carbs, we craved veggies. Through the window of a restaurant on Rue du Rosiers, we saw a couple eating humongous salads – just what the doctor ordered! The proprietor stood behind the bar, carefully selecting a variety of lettuce, veggies, peppers, etc., composing it all artistically on large plates. When he delivered our salads and saw Denise’s condition, he said: “You have a long nose; you will have a boy.” Three months later Hannah was born. Ooops.
My favorite experience was when we discovered a little mom and pop restaurant in the Latin Quarter. Monsieur, visible through the small pass-through window, sweated away in the hot kitchen preparing the meals, while Madame waited the tables. When she delivered my French Onion Soup, it was still boiling, the gruyere melting over the sides of the crock, crusty bread floating on top. Magnifique!
And the desserts – ooh la la! When you purchase a sweet treat in Paris you purchase an experience. Near the Tour Eiffel we stopped for an éclair. The care and skill in which mademoiselle gently placed the pastry on wax paper and safely ensconced it into a white cardboard box, secured by ribbon, was almost more amazing than that delayed first bite.
Nowadays, I play it safe. Baguettes and cheese. Croissants and crepes. Fruit and veggies. Supplement with an occasional éclair, bottled water, and coffee, and I’m good to go. And that’s just when I’m home! But every now and then the repressed part of my palate comes up for air. “Maybe I’m missing something,” it says. So just for kicks, I pulled up the current menu at Paris’ famous Tour D’Argent restaurant. The main course: “Red Mullet: Crispy, chorocitos of octopus & piquillo pepper, zucchini caviar with pistachio oil, fish bone juice with cuttlefish ink sauce.” Sounds yummy – for someone else. Gotta go – my pasta is boiling.
© 2021 L. Wechsler. All rights reserved.