Dear Dad,
Hello from France, where Patrick and I are having a wonderful time. Walking and eating, eating and walking. And one unexpected trip to the emergency room.
Honestly, Dad, for a country with such great food, a girl really has to work to get a decent breakfast.
You know how you always said that breakfast is the most important meal of the day? That we should all eat like kings in the morning and paupers at night? Well, Dad, you were ahead of your time. I’ve been trying to do just that here: a big hearty breakfast, a light lunch, and a very light dinner. It’s what my stomach is used to. But in France, a hearty breakfast is hard to come by; a long, leisurely dinner is the big deal instead.
I try, Dad, I really try—and with my best traveler’s French too—but they always think I’m kidding. La céréale d’avoine? Oats in the morning? Ha. Ha. Ha. Le pruneaux? Prunes go with meat dishes, silly. Très Américaine—très sympathique!
So instead I have crusty baguettes, croissants, jam and butter, and a huge bowl of café au lait. Not the best thing for acid reflux. Then at 8 or 9 in the evening, comes dinner: poulet a la crème, fillet de boeuf with foie gras and truffles, fillet of sole in white wine with mushrooms.
Fortunately, I did cotton on early to the oeuf situation.
Eggs—which are served everywhere—but not often for breakfast, can be had if you can manage to purse your lips prettily while expressing disgust at the same time: eeewh or an ee with an O-shaped mouth. Oeufs. Can I please have some oeufs for breakfast?
The oeuf problem, however, is this: unless you manage to get the oeuf hard-boiled, you get your oeuf soft-boiled and perched upon a tiny and dainty Limoges cup, just big enough for the oeuf. Then, even if you smack it just right with your knife and peel off the top third you have to slurp like mad while your oeuf is running—sticky and yellow—down the side of your dainty cup. Quelle horreur. You feel like such a barbarian.
Yes, Dad, I should have seen the problem brewing when I didn’t want to even share bites of my dinner with Patrick.
When Patrick said, “Here, just let me take the last of those scalloped potatoes off your hands,” I said, “Back away from the potatoes, mon cher, I’m going down with these potatoes on my lips.” With roast pork loin and a green salad, oh, Dad, the gratin Dauphinois with milk, cheese, and garlic was so heavenly, I couldn’t stop myself.
By the third week, we were driving though all the small villages of the Normandy coast, making our way toward the island of Mont Saint-Michel. Our plan was to stay on the island, as close to the medieval abbey on top as we could, until all the fire-breathing tour buses had left for the night, until the tides of the English Channel had swept in and surrounded the island—except for one narrow escape road—and until the mists and silence had taken back their ancient weathered stone.
We checked into the hotel La Mere Poulard, which has a restaurant known for its fluffy egg omelettes and soufflés mixed up by chefs wielding whisks and gleaming copper bowls. Our room was on the third floor, across a stone bridge and up one skinny stone stairway. I think I’ve gained a few pounds, Dad.
By 9 o’clock, we were hungry. We had to start with the Trouville mussels, of course. Fois gras with port and pistachios. Then the gigot d’agneau pre–salé, “pre-salted” leg of lamb from animals that have grazed on the salt marches all around the island. For dessert, the crêpes à la Normande, with Calvados and apples.
The Calvados is really good here. Dad, I may have had two desserts; I can’t really remember. I do remember asking Patrick if he had any Maalox.
You know, people say that the French can be snooty, but I have found everybody to be very helpful. Especially those handsome paramedics, Serge and Sylvain, who found me on the third floor, over the stone bridge and up that extra stairway. The stairway barely had room for one person, but Serge and Sylvain really knew how to handle the gurney so I hardly tipped over sideways at all. I kept my eyes closed most of the way, except for that second when I heard the maître d’hôtel gasping and trying to keep everybody from looking. Poor man, Serge and Sylvain needed an extra gurney for him.
Even in the Emergency Room—did I mention we hadn’t planned on a stop to the city of Avranches?—everybody was so nice and everything was so beautiful. Serge and Sylvain wheeled me into the ER and, une, deux, trois—just like in the movies—onto a bed where the sheets were as nice as ours at home. A white-on-white voile and smelling of lavender.
But then all the questions, and no one with a word of English: what about shortness of breath? What medications did I take? Could I “respirer profondément?” I tried, Dad, to tell them they were barking up the wrong tree. Those wonderful French doctors wanted to be sure I wasn’t having a heart attack.
Je vais a little better right now, I said. Pourriez-vous me donner something for my poor old stomach, I said. This stomach that is not used to baguettes and a few sips of oeuf when what I really want is a big hearty breakfast. This stomach that has been having three or four courses too late at night—with sauces from aioli to vol-au-vent—so that she doesn’t marche pas bien.
Il me faut salade Niçoise for dinner for the rest of the trip.
Well, Dad, in the end we left with a prescription for something like Maalox. Oh, and they even gave me some mousses de protection for the oignons on my feet. Bunions, I mean. Rhymes with soupe àl’oignon.
Is this a great country or what? Everything is so much easier if you think like the French.
So, salade Niçoise has saved our vacation, Dad. I have the hang of eating an oeuf in a tiny porcelain cup. And Patrick’s eye twitch is getting much, much better.
Love,
Your daughter
Originally published on Culinate.com 2010
Edited by Kim Carlson