My little sister, Anna, had the great good sense to marry a lovely Frenchman named Guillaume. They got married in the states, but also traveled to France to celebrate. I got to go with. Lucky me.
Guillaume's grandparents each insisted on having us over for lunch. He still has both sets, so this meant two days in a row of...well, of this:
Meal The First: Served in a farmhouse filled with plush furniture, ornate wooden clocks and various trinkets all made and built by Gui's grandparents, entirely by hand. Yes, the house too, from the ground up.
-Apero (which is like the greatest cocktail hour ever), with nuts and chips and the most extraordinary chestnut liquor that, as far as I can tell, came into being solely for this meal and disappeared from the face of the earth soon after
-Salad of mache, from the garden, dressed with olive oil
-Black radish, also from the garden: A behemoth of a thing, which made my eyes water and numbed my tongue, but was also one of the sweetest damn things I've ever tasted. Served with salty French butter
-Foie gras from a can. OH, French canned foods. OH!
-Baguette
-Turkey leg rolled and stuffed with parsley and garlic
-Mashed potatoes
-Cheese! All French, of course, all from Bordeaux, all slightly stinky. Forgive me, I didn't take down the names. I was drunk and slightly comatose
-Homemade chocolate cous-cous pudding with glorious thick skin
-Wine all the while. I know we had Sauternes with the foie gras, but the others are lost to me. They were perfect.
Meal The Second: A more modern house just on the outskirts of Bordeaux with a breezy patio and lush yard.
-Apero: Assortment of canapes from what was only described as the "Costco of France." OH, French pre-packaged foods. OH!
-Champagne, drunk from a bottle that I sabered myself. It was thrilling. I screamed.
-Foie gras
-Baguette
-Homemade duck confit falling, dripping, oozing with delight
-Steamed green beans thoughtfully tied with scallion bows
-Profiteroles and chocolate sauce, frozen in a box, but OH!
-Cheeses, of the French sort
-Wine, much wine
Following the meal: patriotic, rousing French pub songs, which we could only counter with "Yankee Doodle Dandy." Sorry, USA.
The food was, without exception, excellent. We were full to bursting: all red-faced, stuffed with food and laughter. And we were glad, the kind of glad that only comes along in a great while, glad in a first-love sort of way where you just can't be glad enough. These lunches, served with love and care, were extraordinary for these reasons alone. But...
There was something more, something I've struggled to put words to, and I think:
I get goofy when I eat good food. Moans, eye rolls, sweating, all of it. And someone at the table will inevitably point, giggle or comment. It's always something of note, and even though my companions are usually kind and polite, I always feel somewhat ashamed. Like I've crossed a line, the Decency Line, which one must not cross in such refined times. It's embarrassing, especially because I don't usually know that I'm behaving this way until someone calls attention to it.
In France, the food was magnificent, and several times I caught myself moaning audibly. And (here's the important bit) nobody said a thing. I was simply allowed to enjoy the hell out of my meal. I detected a tiny smile of approval from our first chef, but that's it. Otherwise, the meals passed without incident, save for the one time I tried to turn down a third helping of foie gras ("You're the chef! You EAT!"). Beautiful in the very most grand and simple way.
This is how I want to live, friends, this is how I want to eat. Slather my baguette with butter and wash it down with a goblet of good, cheap wine. Help myself and others to seconds and thirds without comment. Tell crude jokes and put my feet up. Laugh from my belly, and loudly, and the whole time I've nothing to be self-conscious about because everyone, but everyone I'm with will be laughing along with me.
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