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French Food
French Food. Gourmet food. Can be. Often is. But,like any activity that blends unequal parts of human involvement,perishable ingredients,and pictures of dead Presidents, there are levels of quality. The Penthouse. The Mezzanine. The Basement.
This is a Tale of the basement
It begins in a quaint(and,are’nt they all?)French roadside “bistro.” Think – more than a café – less than a restaurant. “Good country cookin’.”Enter ,center stage, my pal Philippe and his American wife,Cathy. Almost home. Long car trip. Ready to chill with some “good country cookin’.”
Looks Promising
Inside, ancient oak beams and weathered stone. 300 years old if it’s a day. The waiter,casually professional, offers them a complimentary apero as he deposits the menu. Good start.
Although Phillipe and Cathy really do have adventurous palettes, road weary and more than ready for some comforting, familiar grub, they opt for “Coq au Vin.”(chicken cooked in wine.)The most classic of classic French dishes.
That done, they stretch their legs(drinks in hand,bien sur) and stroll around the Salle”. It’s decorative motif is “early iron farm hand tools.”Featuring faded sepia photos of dour, beared Men, accompanied by non smiling ramrod straight Women.(obviously members of that era’s “Women united against alcohol,fishing and fun” league.)
The Moment of Untruth
Finally, the moment their stomachs have longed for arrives. The kitchen doors fly open, as the waiter strides proudly forth. Napkins adjusted. Forks clutched. Taste buds on red alert. Then, with that theatrical flourish particular to servers the World over, the waiter joyously hoists the silver cover. Philippe and Cathy lean forward in rapturous anticipation to inhale the sublime aroma. Cathy’s nose twitches. Then crinkles. Philippe grimaces and frowns. It is not sublime.
Faux Damage control
His balloon of enthusiasm suddenly deflated, the waiter, like a good trial lawyer, asks the question to which he already knows the answer.”Is something wrong,Sir?” Philippe fixes him with a steely gaze.”This chicken came from a can!” “Absolutely not,Sir! This is a free range chicken from the farm of the Chef’s brother…cooked from the family recipie of the Chef’s…”Bullshit!”Philippe interrupted. “This chicken can from a can!!!
Bolting up, Phillipe gets in the waiters face. “I was born on a chicken farm! I’ve fed chickens,plucked chickens,butchered chickens….(tapping the waiter’s chest for emphasis) I’m famous in my village for my Coq Au Vin!…..from my Grandmother’s recipie!…..I know chickens, and I know this chicken came from a can!! I demand to speak to the Chef!!!
Creative Visualization
Imagine, for a moment, you’re the waiter. The angry client has the physique of a linebacker. And, he’s on the verge of exploding. Do you: A) keep insisting the chicken is God’s perfect grain fed creation? Or B) get the Chef. You know the answer, dear reader, do you not?
The 200 lb. Can Opener
With as much regal as his 200 plus lbs. can muster, the Chef waddles forth. Sensing(correctly)that sweetness and smiles will not save his chubby butt – the microwave wonder regurgitates the waiter’s rant. Loudly. With an imperially indignant tone. Rightly having none of it, Phillipe pushes chicken man aside and strides toward the kitchen.”That f….ing chicken came from a can, and I’m going to find it!”Squawking like…..well….you what …chicken man and toothpick man trail in Philippe’s righteous wake.
Panic in Microwave Park
Kitchen help, quick to recognize(and r-e-s-p-e-c-t) a bull in their China shop,(wisely)scatter. Rampaging through the garbage,Philippe manages to pull out “The Smoking Gun”, just as his chubbyness arrives. Still not conceding defeat he proclaims :”Ok – it does come from a can. But it’s a grain fed free range chicken from here, so there’s absolutely no difference in quality.”(Now that’s hubris!)
Philippe, seriously losing it, is now in the Chef’s face – big time! “You’re a discrace to your Nationality and your profession….Not only will I report you to the food authorities, I’m suing you for misrepresentation, and lying about your misrepresentation!” Philippe hurls the can across the kitchen and storms out.
No After Dinner Mints
As Phillipe and Cathy head for the exit, his chubbyness waddles (strenuously)after them. “So!……you’re leaving without paying your bill?!” “Bill?” Philippe thunders. “You should be paying us for your deception! “I’m calling the police” chicken man retorts. “Please do. Then the flic can not only testify for me, he’ll also tell everyone in the village that your”regional cusine” comes from a can!!
Throwing in the Towel
Beaten, busted, disgusted, flustered, not to mention exasperated, the best come back Monsieur can jockey can muster is : “Beouf!….you…..you…
Americans!!! That was the straw that broke the linebacker’s back. Lunging forward,grabbing his chubbyness by the shoulders and pinning him against the wall, Philippe seethes :” Listen you – (a four letter English word beginning with “c”,ending in “t”,and rhyming with “runt.”) – If it was’nt for Americans in 1945, today you’d be speaking German!!!”
No Worries
OK – So that’s the basement level. The “bad apple in the barrel.” Chances of finding another “haute cuisine can opener” on the Mezzanine are almost impossible. And, definitely impossible in the Penthouse.
The Bottom line
French food. Gourmet food? Not always Gourmet. Almost always good. That’s my experience. And you agree with me – right?
THROW ME A BONE HERE PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
French Intensive Gardening
I can’t call us friends. Or even, acquaintances. And we’re not neighbours. We’ve never exchanged more than fifteen seconds of conversation. And even that, only once every two weeks or so.
And yet, there is a very real, life-affirming bond between us, difficult to describe. The reason, of course, I must try.
In all weathers, he is there. In his modest garden pressed up against the sidewalk. Surveying his domain. With the contented smile of someone who is truly living his bliss. Be the task watering,weeding,digging or pruning, “M. Greenthumb’s” radiant smile alone is almost sufficient to nourish his lettuce and roses.
He is not “working” the land. But, rather, co-operating with it. Nuturing. Coaxing. Encouraging. Complimenting. He is both a craftsman and an artist. And his garden, as all our lives, is a work in progress.
M.Greenthumb exemplifies a dominant trait in the French character:
A genetic passion for the land. A realization that this is where food comes from. And that food should be treated with respect, not chemicals.
Virtually every Frenchman (and yes, I’m including the “fairer sex”here) regardless of profession, has a garden of some size. No matter how tiny. The height of French pride is to serve you garden goodies,”fabrication maison.” (home made.)
But for all the M., Mme. And Mlle. Greenthumbs, the process is equally important. It’s their culture. It’s a social event. A point of commonality. Sharing techniques. Sharing seeds. Sharing stories.
Each time I pass,donating an encouraging word or two, M. Greenthumb’s smiling ear to ear response is equally brief. But in that brief instant, we establish a genuine human connection. Reaffirming Dr. Johnson’s observation that: “True happiness is to be found in the texture of everyday life.” And everyday life, truly lived, is sharing the moments.
“Enjoy the moments kid. Cause in the end,those moments will add up to a life.”
– Humphrey Bogart –
(can’t recall the film’s title….can you?)
Got some gardening moments to share?
Throw Me A Bone Here People!
What are ya thinkin?
French Impressionist Artists
Here’s the guy who started it all. The one who’s responsible for fuzzy, ephemeral images of water lily wallpaper, sheets, pillow cases, calendars,mugs and posters. And Claude Monet gave Impressionism it’s name by accident.
He’d exhibited a painting called : “Impression – Sunrise” (which was a view of the port of LeHavre in the morning mist)Although it’s generally assumed that Monet chose that title to convey the sketchy, unfinished nature of the work, the unfriendly art critic, Louis Leroy started referring to Monet and his pals as “Impressionists.” And – Viola! – a movement was described.
The main members of Monet’s posse were Renoir, Pissarro, and the Englishman Alfred Sisley.(The English never stopped invading France. They just do it in different ways) Their main gig was painting outdoors.(“plein air” painting.) The idea being that with their rapid brush strokes and high key colors they could capture the subtle nuances of changing light, plus add their personal stimulus from the scene.
Water and Social outings associated with it, figured big time in their painting agenda.(Renoir’s “The Boating Party”, for example.) This contemporary subject matter, particularly Paris and the surrounding countryside(Read – weekend escape spots for stressed out city dwellers!) means that Edgar Degas(“The Dance Class”) and Edouard Manet(“Djeuner sur l’herbe”) must also be included.
Although he never exhibited with Monet and Co., Manet had a taste for similiar subject matter, and was an important influence on the younger impressionists. Later impressionists(after 1876) included Paul Cezanne, Paul Gaugin, and the only American on the scene, Mary Cassatt.
The most celebrated(as in “famous”)successful impressionist, was, as you may have guessed, Monet. At the top of his game, he was literally, as well as figuratively “made in the shade”, having installed himself in a huge water garden heavy mansion in the village of Giverny, North(ever so slightly) West of Paris.There, his subject matter was a few steps out the door. And so, his artistic output, and his waistline increased. Even at his slimmest, Claude was never dest
ined to be a Jenny Craig poster boy.
But, sadly, for every “fat n’ happy” story, there is a corresponding “skinny and miserable” one. The Impressionists contribution to this Artistic and personal sadness, was Alfred Sisley, the English boy in the band. How far down was he? – Wellll, at one point he pleaded wth his fellow Impressionists to buy a painting so he could eat! Meanwhile, Monet’s daily challange was to tell his housekeeper what color the lunch plates should be. There jus’ ain’t no justice folks, is there?
Alan Watts, referring to life in general once declared : “Everything composed, no matter how long postponed, must eventually decompose.” And so it was with the Impressionists. Like any “movement” that starts with degrees of inspiration, high ideals and comittment to a common goal, eventually the same ole’ blue meanies, jealously, success, lack of it, rivalry, seep in. And “decomposition ” does it’s thang. For the Impressionists, this was around the early 1800’s.
Although it’s the watery/Parisian pleasures subject matter that is the Impressionists most recognizeble Artistic legacy, Da BG’s favs are the lesser celebrated scenes of “Impressionists in winter.”
Ok – there are a zillion web sites you can google to get more info on Claude and his un-indicted co-conspirators. What you can’t get on those sites, is what’s headed yer way now. An up close n’ personal “been there/done that/you should too” recommendation from da BG hisself! Its a place called : “La Reserve.” A few kilometres outside the village of Giverny. It’s a six rooms or so gite/chambre d’hote built to plans from the 18th century by one of it’s owners -Didier Brunet and one workman! Even more amazing when you see Didier. He’s so skinny, he makes me look like a Venice Beach musclehead! Didier’s wife – Marie-Lorraine has filled the rooms tastefully with period furniture. Each room unique. But none (happily) with a “theme.” Bottom Line : This is a real find! Tell ’em the BG sent ya. You can thank me later.
Anything else I can do?
THROW ME A BONE HERE PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
