Adventures of a Food Critic
445
When the salesclerk, a pleasant young woman, asked what exactly was I doing, I explained that I was testing for ripeness and, although I hated to be severe, the cheese seemed to be a little hard. In that case, she replied, with a tolerant sigh, perhaps I would better be able to judge if I would take off the wooden box cover on which I had been pressing and test the Camembert itself. Shamefacedly, I had to admit that she was right. Actually I had a lot of trouble with cheese. I once drove for hours in the Pyrenees, near the Spanish border, through pounding rain and raging wind because I was determined to make it to the town of Roquefort. There I planned to sample the famous Roquefort cheese right at its place of origin. Soaked and exhausted, I finally found shelter in what certainly today would be classed as a no-star hotel. It did, however, have a restaurant and I couldn’t wait to change into dry clothes and get down to dine. Strangely, I found no Roquefort on the cheese list but assumed it would HAVE to be on the plateau des fromages at the end of one of the rare really bad meals I ever had in France. Guess what? No, you’ve already guessed? It wasn’t. Question to the waiter: How come no Roquefort cheese in the town of Roquefort? Again that dreaded tolerant look. The reply came quickly with, of course, a Gallic shrug of the shoulders and what I took as a perceptible smirk. "As Monsieur surely knows, Roquefort cheese comes from Roquefort-sur-Soulzon in the southern part of the central mountain plateau region of France, not from this Roquefort in the Pyrenees." I nodded meekly, trying unsuccessfully to look as if, of course, I knew that. Then I ordered a double cognac to try and drown out the entire experience, downed it with a gulp and guiltily left a larger- than- necessary tip. Eventually, however, as I got more comfortable with the cheese world, even I was able to spot the incongruity when an American soldier and his wife who were completing a two-year assignment in France told me earnestly that they couldn’t wait to get back to the United States so that they could eat cheese again. For two years they had dutifully obeyed the army’s warnings–not totally without foundation at the time–that cheese in France might cause problems because it easily could have come from unpasteurized milk. Once I was over the cheese hurdle I slowly learned to handle the wine part of French culture. I didn’t drink wine at all when I started my reporting. That’s why, visiting an American military base in the wine-rich Bordeaux region, I thought it hilariously funny when I learned that a local doctor had made what I considered and obviously absurd and regionally self-serving claim that a few glasses of red wine every day were good for you and helped prevent heart attacks. My smart guy article about the claim at the time could not have been more sarcastic. To my shame, that claim is considered almost standard medical wisdom today I made progress very quickly once I caught on, however and it didn’t take me long to get onto the wine-drinking part of my columnist’s job even though there still were pitfalls along the road.
Feeling obliged to, at least, stop by a famed wine-producing château, I picked one that produced Pommard, in the Burgundy region. Previously I had tasted and liked Pommard wine so I thought everything would be simple. It wasn’t. In the château showroom there were all kinds of bottles and vintages on display and I inspected them closely. This one would be best if laid down for eight or nine years before drinking. This one would mature in about 10 years. Another one in perhaps five, but that would be pushing it. A little disconcerted, I summoned the courage to ask the shop manager if there was a bottle for sale that one could drink right away. The glance this time had no tolerance attached, only disdain, shock and something near to horror. Without a word being exchanged the message was haughtily transmitted. “Drink NOW! What effrontery! Heaven protect us!" Every bit of his body language was transmitting: "Sir, it would be better if a know-nothing such as yourself were to leave the premises immediately." I slunk out and have been afraid to drink Pommard ever since. There also was the time I tasted snails in the shell for the first time in the Atlantic coast city of La Rochelle. Later, having the yen to eat them again, I drove all the way across the country back to La Rochelle from Burgundy because, as I told my waitress, I was sure snails tasted better there where they were coming fresh from the sea. A bit dumbfounded, she explained to me patiently and to my embarrassment, that, although they came in shells, like oysters or mussels, they weren’t really marine creatures. They didn’t come from the sea. They came from gardens, particularly in Burgundy, where I’d started from. Well, live and learn. You can’t become a restaurant critic in France overnight. I’ve learned a lot about French cuisine since then of course, but probably fortunately for the French food industry, I’ve given up — except for rare exceptions — my restaurant column. You, too, can enjoy making your own faux pas in France! Check out these great French discounts from Avis — plus: no online payment obligation, no cancellation fees, very convenient if you use the train, and a pick up in main train stations. An accredited member of the foreign press corps, Minnesota native Robert (Bud) Korengold first came to Europe in 1955 after serving…
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When the salesclerk, a pleasant young woman, asked what exactly was I doing, I explained that I was testing for ripeness and, although I hated to be severe, the cheese seemed to be a little hard. In that case, she replied, with a tolerant sigh, perhaps I would better be able to judge if I would take off the wooden box cover on which I had been pressing and test the Camembert itself. Shamefacedly, I had to admit that she was right.
Actually I had a lot of trouble with cheese. I once drove for hours in the Pyrenees, near the Spanish border, through pounding rain and raging wind because I was determined to make it to the town of Roquefort. There I planned to sample the famous Roquefort cheese right at its place of origin. Soaked and exhausted, I finally found shelter in what certainly today would be classed as a no-star hotel. It did, however, have a restaurant and I couldn’t wait to change into dry clothes and get down to dine. Strangely, I found no Roquefort on the cheese list but assumed it would HAVE to be on the plateau des fromages at the end of one of the rare really bad meals I ever had in France.
Guess what? No, you’ve already guessed? It wasn’t.
Question to the waiter: How come no Roquefort cheese in the town of Roquefort? Again that dreaded tolerant look. The reply came quickly with, of course, a Gallic shrug of the shoulders and what I took as a perceptible smirk. "As Monsieur surely knows, Roquefort cheese comes from Roquefort-sur-Soulzon in the southern part of the central mountain plateau region of France, not from this Roquefort in the Pyrenees."
I nodded meekly, trying unsuccessfully to look as if, of course, I knew that. Then I ordered a double cognac to try and drown out the entire experience, downed it with a gulp and guiltily left a larger- than- necessary tip.
Eventually, however, as I got more comfortable with the cheese world, even I was able to spot the incongruity when an American soldier and his wife who were completing a two-year assignment in France told me earnestly that they couldn’t wait to get back to the United States so that they could eat cheese again. For two years they had dutifully obeyed the army’s warnings–not totally without foundation at the time–that cheese in France might cause problems because it easily could have come from unpasteurized milk.
Once I was over the cheese hurdle I slowly learned to handle the wine part of French culture. I didn’t drink wine at all when I started my reporting. That’s why, visiting an American military base in the wine-rich Bordeaux region, I thought it hilariously funny when I learned that a local doctor had made what I considered and obviously absurd and regionally self-serving claim that a few glasses of red wine every day were good for you and helped prevent heart attacks. My smart guy article about the claim at the time could not have been more sarcastic. To my shame, that claim is considered almost standard medical wisdom today
Actually I had a lot of trouble with cheese. I once drove for hours in the Pyrenees, near the Spanish border, through pounding rain and raging wind because I was determined to make it to the town of Roquefort. There I planned to sample the famous Roquefort cheese right at its place of origin. Soaked and exhausted, I finally found shelter in what certainly today would be classed as a no-star hotel. It did, however, have a restaurant and I couldn’t wait to change into dry clothes and get down to dine. Strangely, I found no Roquefort on the cheese list but assumed it would HAVE to be on the plateau des fromages at the end of one of the rare really bad meals I ever had in France.
Guess what? No, you’ve already guessed? It wasn’t.
Question to the waiter: How come no Roquefort cheese in the town of Roquefort? Again that dreaded tolerant look. The reply came quickly with, of course, a Gallic shrug of the shoulders and what I took as a perceptible smirk. "As Monsieur surely knows, Roquefort cheese comes from Roquefort-sur-Soulzon in the southern part of the central mountain plateau region of France, not from this Roquefort in the Pyrenees."
I nodded meekly, trying unsuccessfully to look as if, of course, I knew that. Then I ordered a double cognac to try and drown out the entire experience, downed it with a gulp and guiltily left a larger- than- necessary tip.
Eventually, however, as I got more comfortable with the cheese world, even I was able to spot the incongruity when an American soldier and his wife who were completing a two-year assignment in France told me earnestly that they couldn’t wait to get back to the United States so that they could eat cheese again. For two years they had dutifully obeyed the army’s warnings–not totally without foundation at the time–that cheese in France might cause problems because it easily could have come from unpasteurized milk.
Once I was over the cheese hurdle I slowly learned to handle the wine part of French culture. I didn’t drink wine at all when I started my reporting. That’s why, visiting an American military base in the wine-rich Bordeaux region, I thought it hilariously funny when I learned that a local doctor had made what I considered and obviously absurd and regionally self-serving claim that a few glasses of red wine every day were good for you and helped prevent heart attacks. My smart guy article about the claim at the time could not have been more sarcastic. To my shame, that claim is considered almost standard medical wisdom today
I made progress very quickly once I caught on, however and it didn’t take me long to get onto the wine-drinking part of my columnist’s job even though there still were pitfalls along the road.
Feeling obliged to, at least, stop by a famed wine-producing château, I picked one that produced Pommard, in the Burgundy region. Previously I had tasted and liked Pommard wine so I thought everything would be simple. It wasn’t.
In the château showroom there were all kinds of bottles and vintages on display and I inspected them closely. This one would be best if laid down for eight or nine years before drinking. This one would mature in about 10 years. Another one in perhaps five, but that would be pushing it. A little disconcerted, I summoned the courage to ask the shop manager if there was a bottle for sale that one could drink right away.
The glance this time had no tolerance attached, only disdain, shock and something near to horror. Without a word being exchanged the message was haughtily transmitted.
“Drink NOW! What effrontery! Heaven protect us!"
Every bit of his body language was transmitting: "Sir, it would be better if a know-nothing such as yourself were to leave the premises immediately."
I slunk out and have been afraid to drink Pommard ever since.
There also was the time I tasted snails in the shell for the first time in the Atlantic coast city of La Rochelle. Later, having the yen to eat them again, I drove all the way across the country back to La Rochelle from Burgundy because, as I told my waitress, I was sure snails tasted better there where they were coming fresh from the sea.
A bit dumbfounded, she explained to me patiently and to my embarrassment, that, although they came in shells, like oysters or mussels, they weren’t really marine creatures. They didn’t come from the sea. They came from gardens, particularly in Burgundy, where I’d started from.
Well, live and learn. You can’t become a restaurant critic in France overnight.
I’ve learned a lot about French cuisine since then of course, but probably fortunately for the French food industry, I’ve given up — except for rare exceptions — my restaurant column.
In the château showroom there were all kinds of bottles and vintages on display and I inspected them closely. This one would be best if laid down for eight or nine years before drinking. This one would mature in about 10 years. Another one in perhaps five, but that would be pushing it. A little disconcerted, I summoned the courage to ask the shop manager if there was a bottle for sale that one could drink right away.
The glance this time had no tolerance attached, only disdain, shock and something near to horror. Without a word being exchanged the message was haughtily transmitted.
“Drink NOW! What effrontery! Heaven protect us!"
Every bit of his body language was transmitting: "Sir, it would be better if a know-nothing such as yourself were to leave the premises immediately."
I slunk out and have been afraid to drink Pommard ever since.
There also was the time I tasted snails in the shell for the first time in the Atlantic coast city of La Rochelle. Later, having the yen to eat them again, I drove all the way across the country back to La Rochelle from Burgundy because, as I told my waitress, I was sure snails tasted better there where they were coming fresh from the sea.
A bit dumbfounded, she explained to me patiently and to my embarrassment, that, although they came in shells, like oysters or mussels, they weren’t really marine creatures. They didn’t come from the sea. They came from gardens, particularly in Burgundy, where I’d started from.
Well, live and learn. You can’t become a restaurant critic in France overnight.
I’ve learned a lot about French cuisine since then of course, but probably fortunately for the French food industry, I’ve given up — except for rare exceptions — my restaurant column.
You, too, can enjoy making your own faux pas in France! Check out these great French discounts from Avis — plus: no online payment obligation, no cancellation fees, very convenient if you use the train, and a pick up in main train stations.
An accredited member of the foreign press corps, Minnesota native Robert (Bud) Korengold first came to Europe in 1955 after serving in the Korean war. A Chevalier in the order of Tastevin in Burgundy, the recipient of a Presidential Award for Sustained Superior Accomplishment in the conduct of foreign policy, and a member of the order of Palmes Academiques and the order of Arts et Lettres, he lives in Normandy doing a bit of gardening and a bit of writing and a lot of amused reflection about life in France and with the French.
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