For me to be complaining about the food here in France is pretty undeserved, because true to its reputation, French cuisine is delicious. And it certainly helps that my host mom S is an excellent cook. I am amazed how quickly she can whip up béchamel sauce without referencing the recipe, or cook a steak to medium-rare perfection. And yet…I really miss the food back home, for the fact that it just isn’t the same.
In France, they have some sort of foods so right. Bread, for example. What would be considered “gourmet” or “artisan” bread in the US can be bought at a gas station in France.
But like they say, you can’t win ’em all. The French fail miserably on a suitable sandwich bread. Not the just-baked fresh kind, but the one you find on supermarket shelves, something with density and fortitude when you want something that holds all the innards inside.
The French don’t seem so keen on the concept of a sandwich in general. For me it’s a cultural demarcation. The sandwich is reflective of the American, eat-on-the-run lifestyle. In US schools children get a half-hour to eat their lunch; in France the kids get two hours.
It’s not that the French don’t eat all the ingredients of a sandwich, it’s that they eat everything separately. Sandwiches are convenient and easily portable. You get everything in a single bite—meat, cheese, vegetable, bread.
Another food item that is hard to come by in France is peanut butter, which is why I was so ecstatic when my parents mailed me some jars for my birthday. Three months without peanut butter? You probably don’t think it would be a big deal. Oh but it was. I tried to save it, resisted as long as I could from popping open the jar. But finally at long last when I did, a couple of weeks later, it was the most incredibly satisfying experience. Nothing beats the tactile and gustatory experience of the smooth rich blend of creaminess and crunchiness, sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Shortly afterwards, I mentioned a “PBJ” in conversation with the girls, and saw a look of confusion cross over their faces. They didn’t know what it was. As I explained, they were absolutely epoustouflées by the concept, while I was astonished that they had never tasted my childhood staple of nourishment. Ar (the oldest girl) is seriously disgusted by the idea of sandwiches, while the younger girl agreed to try her very first one if I were to make it for her. Her first bite was cautious and she proclaimed it bizarre, but by the end, I observed her from the corner of my eye, munching and chomping away contentedly on her last bits of crusts.
In France, they have some sort of foods so right. Bread, for example. What would be considered “gourmet” or “artisan” bread in the US can be bought at a gas station in France.
But like they say, you can’t win ’em all. The French fail miserably on a suitable sandwich bread. Not the just-baked fresh kind, but the one you find on supermarket shelves, something with density and fortitude when you want something that holds all the innards inside.
The French don’t seem so keen on the concept of a sandwich in general. For me it’s a cultural demarcation. The sandwich is reflective of the American, eat-on-the-run lifestyle. In US schools children get a half-hour to eat their lunch; in France the kids get two hours.
It’s not that the French don’t eat all the ingredients of a sandwich, it’s that they eat everything separately. Sandwiches are convenient and easily portable. You get everything in a single bite—meat, cheese, vegetable, bread.
Another food item that is hard to come by in France is peanut butter, which is why I was so ecstatic when my parents mailed me some jars for my birthday. Three months without peanut butter? You probably don’t think it would be a big deal. Oh but it was. I tried to save it, resisted as long as I could from popping open the jar. But finally at long last when I did, a couple of weeks later, it was the most incredibly satisfying experience. Nothing beats the tactile and gustatory experience of the smooth rich blend of creaminess and crunchiness, sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Shortly afterwards, I mentioned a “PBJ” in conversation with the girls, and saw a look of confusion cross over their faces. They didn’t know what it was. As I explained, they were absolutely epoustouflées by the concept, while I was astonished that they had never tasted my childhood staple of nourishment. Ar (the oldest girl) is seriously disgusted by the idea of sandwiches, while the younger girl agreed to try her very first one if I were to make it for her. Her first bite was cautious and she proclaimed it bizarre, but by the end, I observed her from the corner of my eye, munching and chomping away contentedly on her last bits of crusts.
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