Over a year after returning from a trip to France, I still find myself fondly recollecting the meals I ate there. Ahh, I sigh - that saucisson, that bleu cheese, that crepe, that pain au chocolat! – ahh, so wonderful.
My maternal grandmother was from France, and my family lived in Paris for a year when I was seven. Before and after that year, we took family trips there. And as an adult, I have been several times. But it was this last trip, in May 2007, that it finally sank in – the food in France is fabulous. And I don’t mean the complicated, esoteric, tripe-laden dishes you might find in a Julia Child cookbook. Unsophisticated eater that I am, I’m still don’t know how to appreciate that stuff. I mean the simple, everyday ingredients, the average dinner out, the snack you get from a street vendor.
For our first lunch of the trip, my sister and I found ourselves sitting on a lawn below the Palais de Chaillot, across the street from the Eiffel Tower, tucking into open-faced sandwiches of saucisson, montbriac cheese, and tomato on a crusty, airy bread.
When we were kids, we had lived near the Eiffel Tower, and for this picnic, we’d done our shopping in the Rue Cler, the market street around the corner from our old apartment. Rebekah had picked out the cheese, a cube of montbriac – soft, with a mild blue streak in it. I had never eaten bleu cheese in my life and I was suspicious of this blue-rinded cube. But luckily, I tried it. And it was delicious. That blue rind, as it turned out, was not as unappetizing as it had first appeared. When I try to imitate this taste sensation here in the U.S., I go for a wedge of cambozola (whose name, I’ve figured out, is a combination of camembert and gorgonzola). It’s probably not as ripe and sublime, but it will have to do.
Aside from finally learning to love bleu, the other novel thing about this picnic was that I ate saucisson. Saucisson – a hard, dry salami, laced with peppercorns - was a staple of our childhood year in France. But I had since become a vegetarian. A half-Jewish vegetarian, who, if there was one meat she really, really wouldn’t eat, it was pork. But it turns out that pork is delicious, vegetarian half-Jew or not. As with the cheese, I’m glad I ate it. And that’s why I’m smiling with such glee in this picture – because it’s my first day in France for the first time in ten years, and I’m eating bleu cheese and saucisson and a fabulous tomato on bakery-made bread and I couldn’t be happier.
Every morning we woke up in Paris, the day started with a pain au chocolat. At least for me. Rebekah often started with a pain au raisin. Those are good too, but I’ll have the pain au chocolat nine times out of ten. The dollar was weak at that time and generally, buying stuff in France was painful. But at 1 Euro 20 cents, the pain au chocolat – a puffy rectangle of flaky pastry, run through by a slab of high-quality dark chocolate – provided an inordinate amount of melt-in-your-mouth, butter-all-over-your-hands pleasure.
Another street-food treat were crepes.
There was an Indian man, in a booth outside an Indian restaurant, around the corner from our hotel, standing under a long menu of options, ready to make your crepe. He’d ladle batter onto his large iron crepe surface, generously sprinkle on your choice of topping, exchange knowing glances with you as he could see your anticipation, and then he’d fold it expertly into a flat triangle, and slide it off his spatula into a paper sleeve. Rebekah thought she was having a little ham and cheese snack one afternoon, but it turned out to be dinner. The crepes were so big, I could never eat one myself, but gladly split a few nutella and almond ones with my sister.
The impetus for our trip to France that year was a cousin’s wedding. The wedding was amazing – the ceremony in a cathedral, the reception in a chateau. With six kids, I don’t know how they’re going to repeat that. I think the other five will have to elope. At the reception, I noticed that all my table-mates were what my Bubbi would call “good eaters.” As I trimmed fat from the edges of my meat and hid them under a pile of mushrooms, they simply ate everything. Male or female, no portions were too big for these guests – every plate was completely cleaned. No one was finicky about the vegetable. When dinner was done, they happily devoured their chestnut cake and ice cream. And there was no fooling around with menu choices on the invitation either – we all ate what was served and were happy with it.
As winter sets in and my walk to the bus stop each day already feels like an Arctic expedition, my memories of the food in France warm my soul. The infinite cheeses, the flavorful tomatoes, the sweet strawberries, the shear gusto with which the French eat and enjoy their meals – these are wonderful memories. Organizing your travel around food isn’t a bad idea. Let me know what you find out there …
