Hands down my favorite thing about France is the food. Every time I eat a pain au chocolat or some fresh figues or a pizza doused in crème fraiche, it makes all the inconveniences of strikes and trickiness of using disgusting bathrooms well worth it. It is especially impressive to me how much French people know about their food. I frequently visit a friend of my mom’s who lives in the countryside and at dinner she’ll always explain that the cheese comes from such and such animal or the wine comes from such and such region where the land is in a particular way that makes the grapes have such and such flavor, etc… They know which wines bring out the maximum flavor of different cheeses. They eat infinitely more varieties of meat than Americans who mainly stick to beef, chicken and fish. What about duck?!?! Rabbit? Pheasant? All delicious in their own unique ways. Actually, to be honest, I don’t love the flavor of rabbit, but the texture is so tender and melty that I enjoy eating it. I don’t even like it and I love it. Eating is such a revered experience for the French that you can’t help but become interested in the food.
But where can I get a burrito?
As an American, you don’t realize how precious Mexican food is until it’s taken away. Sometimes while I’m scarfing down yet another baguette, I wish I could switch it out for some carne asada and then promptly become depressed because, from my experience, French people don’t understand Mexican food. I’ve had two run-ins with the stuff. The first time was in Nice where I was vacationing with my extremely charming boyfriend. It was monsooning and we were desperate for some food, but had no desire to leave our cozy little hostel room after venturing out earlier and getting soaked. But starvation won that battle and we headed out into the night with our shoes a squishin.
The second restaurant we found was a little tex-mex place. The first was a nicer place specializing in Paella, but the waiter told us we had to have a reservation despite there being only two people in the entire place. When I asked if he was expecting more people later, he said “no” without any explanation. My best guess is it was a front for the mafia and shit was going to go down that night. So we found ourselves at a cozy little table sharing some chips and guac and chicken enchiladas. Thank goodness you can’t screw up tortilla chips. No! You can! If you put paprika all over them, I assure you they will be ruined. I will never understand that choice… On the bright side, it does go to show that you can do anything you set your mind to.
My second experience happened with a friend of mine from California. We were hanging out and started salivating over our memories of good Mexican food and decided we would go to the only Mexican restaurant in Aix for a burrito. Our options were beef, chicken or vegetable. We asked what kind of beef it was. “It’s ground beef.” The guy said it like we should have known that that’s the kind of beef that goes on a burrito. Duh. After chuckling we ask, “what are the vegetables?” The guy behind the counter lifts the lid off of the vegetable container to reveal all the vegetables you would find in a good French ratatouille. As we burst into laughter, he asks us what we’re laughing at and Cali asks “what are the vegetables?” Carrots, zucchini, endives etc… Do you see what I’m working with here?
I related this story to my French professor and said that you’d think the French people opening these restaurants would at least research authentic recipes that are so readily available on the web. His response was that the French are so proud of their cuisine, and it’s such a big part of their culture that it’s not surprising that the Mexican food had such a big French influence. Sigh… The food the French do right, they really do right, but if somebody wants to mail me some food from an authentic Mexican restaurant I will love you forever. Don’t forget the margarita!
