Curious Ralph in France: Food
In all their years of visiting France, Ralph and Jo had only one bad meal that they could recall. They had spent a long morning wandering the 5th Arrondissement ending up at La Dame de Lincorne around 1PM. Having eaten petit déjeuner early in the morning, (café au lait, OJ, a croissant, and a quarter of a baguette) they were starving. They had avoided the temptation to snack on a crépe; too déclassé before noon.
As
they left le Cluny they found themselves on a street Ralph had always
abhorred: rue de la Huchette. It was filled, seemingly twenty-four
hours a day, with in-your-face-hawkers exhorting you to try their
mainly-Greek wares. Huge slabs of spitted lamb were displayed almost on
the street along with windows of seafood which Ralph was never sure
were real. If the Japanese could display plastic sushi could the ethnic
French be far behind? Despite feeling gastronomically claustrophobic as
they navigated the narrow street they had not lost their appetite and
began looking for a suitable respite in a quiet, preferably French,
restaurant.
They ducked into a
likely candidate and sat down at the table farthest from the window.
Ralph ordered escargots and bouilliabaise; the former too chewy and the
latter disgusting and oddly presented. There were two pieces of
nondescript white fish (cod, perhaps) on a separate plate and a broth
that he thought tasted like urine. What exactly was he supposed to do?
Crumble the fish into the broth? Or pour the broth over the fish?
Whatever, it was bizarre and basically inedible.
Jo
had ordered a steak which was overcooked and barely palatable but
Ralph’s disquietude with his choices put her off her food. Ralph stood
up and not wanting to insult their waiter with a tirade from an
American said simply, "Nous devons partir maintenant." paid the bill of
$24, and left in a huff. They vowed to find an open marché to buy
roasted chicken with potatoes swimming in oil for dinner back at their
apartment. They could always count on that.
When
in France, Ralph and Jo generally ate a three-course dinner with a
bottle of wine for less than they did at home, in Salt Lake City. Their
average dinner in France was usually $50 counting tip. This was not
surprising since the state of Utah, in its effort to discourage
drinking (even amongst those inclined to) jacked-up the price of any
given bottle of wine, a major tax portion going to the State Liquor
Commission. Ralph always considered that he was actually saving money
by going to France.
Despite the
dinner bargains, Ralph wanted to make sure he was getting the best deal
he could, all the time. He loved prix fixe meals. One night he and Jo
had gone to a Michelin 2 star restaurant with some friends. The four of
them had decided to splurge on a $60 bottle of Bordeaux. The somelier
uncorked the wine and poured it into a decanter to let it air. After
ten minutes he brought the decanter to the table and filled four wine
glasses, leaving the bottle near Ralph. After finishing his entrée
Ralph noticed some wine in the bottom of the bottle, perhaps three
millimeters. Surreptitiously, and out of sight of the somelier he
poured the dregs into the decanter.
"What are you doing?" Jo asked.
"There
was some wine left," Ralph said. He felt a little like he was trapped
in an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. A few minutes later the somelier
returned, looked at the decanter with its sediment, and without batting
an eye poured it into Ralph’s glass. Ralph, not to be chagrined,
emptied his glass. The others at the table watched him do it wondering
what the somelier was saying to the manager in the back room about le
type Américain at table five.
Le
type Américain had a life long reputation for such behavior; it loomed
large in his legend. The contravening side of his life of faux pas was
his effusive appreciation of foods French. He had always considered
French a language of excess, providing the possibility of grandiloquent
expressions of either approbation or censure and French food usually
gave Ralph ample opportunity.
On
arriving in the Paris for the first time with Jo, finding a street
marché with purée of celery he exclaimed, "incroyable, this is amazing.
I have never tasted anything like this." Jo agreed but said little,
leaving the superlatives to Ralph. For the rest of the afternoon Ralph
had food flashbacks: "That purée, only in Paris. We have got to have
that again. Fantastique."
Then
there was the flan de moules at le Caméleon a restaurant in the 6th
arrondissemnet that Ralph and Jo discovered through the advice of a
Francophile friend.
It was an
appetizer beyond belief and, believing that if it was worth eating once
it was worth eating twice, Ralph managed to eat it three times in a
week. He had no curiosity about recipes (that was Jo’s purview), nor
could he describe the essence of any delicacy he craved. Similarly, he
was notoriously bad describing wines and considered those who did bad
actors, effete pretenders in the world of gourmets.
Only
once in his life had he been to a wine tasting and, predictably, Ralph
had dealt with an uncomfortable situation through humor. The restaurant
was nouvelle cuisine and the participants were local Salt Lake
oenologists, a heavily disproportionate number of them English
professors from the University of Utah. Mark Strand, the former US Poet
Laureate was amongst them. There were four couples per table, five
courses and five flights of wine. After each course/flight each table
was given a turn to comment. Ralph’s coterie was at table six. The tone
was set early in the evening. By the time the commentary reached
Ralph’s table many terms had been bandied about: tannins, oak, nose,
peppery, cherry, bouquet.
Ralph
stood up boldly and said, "This is a wine with a naughty nose. Probably
from an Eastern European, formerly Communist country. The kind of wine
you’d drink in a back room with the maid."
The other tables laughed politely and quickly regained their decorum in time to get on with the next flight of wines.
By
the end of the evening things had loosened enough so that by the time
it was table six’s turn to comment again there was expectant laughter
even before Ralph stood and said, "Table 6 will speak of no wine before
its time." A general groan ensued and the evening was over.
It
was this experience that colored Ralph’s attitude toward wines. He knew
what he liked and had no idea why. It was not important to him. Ralph’s
excuse was his nonexistent olfactory skills; he could not detect any
nose with his nose.
Despite
this he always smelled his food before he tasted it, almost a
sacrosanct ritual. If he really liked something he would try to make
the gustatory experience, for example mashed potatoes made with crème
fraiche, last as long as he could by manipulating it with his fork into
a neat pile after each bite until there was just one left. Jo thought
this a curious, though endearing behavior.
On
one trip several years ago they were driving to Paris from Provence,
their sole objective to end up for the night some place north of Lyon.
Just before dark they turned off the A2 towards a town called Thoissy
and a relais de silence, Au Capon Fin. They had been driving all day
and were exhausted. The Hotel boasted a three star Michelin restaurant;
the chef was the grandson of the apparently famous (Ralph had never
heard of him) Paul Blanc. Ralph and Jo made reservations for a
respectable hour, 8:30PM and retired to shower and rest.
8:30PM
found them in their best regalia ready for an evening of gastronomic
delights. The maitre d’hotel solicitously, but not obsequiously,
ushered them to their table and brought them a wine list. Since Ralph
could not tell a $1 from a $30 bottle of wine Jo chose. Ralph decided
that the smoked salmon canapés they were offered along with oversized
dinner menu were designed to get them thinking, food.
"Ici
les hors d’oeuvres avant les hors d’oeuvres," offered the waiter while
they were considering their choices. It was a mousse de saumon avec
articahut and it was exquisite.
For their appetizers Ralph chose escargots; Jo chose lobster with truffles.
For
their main courses Ralph chose a local fish with sweetbreads on a bed
of spinach; Jo chose chicken over morels in a cream sauce. Ralph
avoided cream although once, in a fit of morning decadence, he poured
fresh thick cream into the middle of his croissant and ate it.
Two
hours into their dining the waiter returned and offered, "Ici la crème
brulée avant le le déssert." This was classic Jo, ever the connoisseur
of créme brulée, Ralph thought. This was followed by the obligatory
three tiered cours de fromage. Too many choices for two people already
uncomfortably sated from the in-between courses.
As
they were debating between a slice of d’affinois versus saint nectaire
(they got both) an elderly woman seated behind them arose magisterially
carrying her white Standard Poodle, avec coiffure Français with a
diamond studded collar; he had sat silently at her feet throughout
dinner. Not a scene familiar to either Jo or Ralph, it made them
nostalgic for their own Springer Spaniel who usually shared their
dinner with his head on one of their laps.
They
dispelled their pangs of homesickness by sharing a dessert of chocolate
mint mousse with Grand Marnier Sorbet garnished with fresh strawberries
and raspberries. Once again French food had become an anodyne for
nostalgic despair.
--
Louis Borgenicht is a pediatrician/writer living in SLC, Utah. He's the co-author, with his son Joe, of The Baby Owner's Manual: Operating Instructions, Trouble-Shooting Tips, and Advice on First-Year Maintenance.
Louis Borgenicht is a pediatrician/writer living in SLC, Utah. He's the co-author, with his son Joe, of The Baby Owner's Manual: Operating Instructions, Trouble-Shooting Tips, and Advice on First-Year Maintenance.
