I was not born to luxury. But I love it. I also was not born in France, yet I love it. Put the two things together and it is no wonder that I eventually found myself in a small Parisian restaurant eating exotic things. But I am racing ahead in my story. First I had to study la carte and in Paris this can be, shall we say, somewhat of a challenge unless you are very fluent in French. But then, before I even tell you this part of the story you must know that many years later I again found myself in a French restaurant, in California this time. My lucky star had just guided me to a lady with whom, it turned out, I was to spend the rest of my days. This was our first lunch out.
But let us get back to Paris and la carte, the menu as we tend to call it here. Being young, unsure, and a little vain I pretended to take my time. The truth was that I could identify very little in that document which seemed edible. I saw the word “ris”, pronounced “ree”, which is how the word for “rice” is pronounced and which is why I assumed that it meant rice. The word “veau” I knew meant veal. And I also recognized the word “terrine”. In my native German it means a bowl of soup. On that basis I placed my order: “La terrine, et puis, le ris de Veau, s’il vous plait”. Voila, polished off, my first “commande” done in perfect style. I also ordered a bottle of water. “Gazeux ou non-gazeux?” the waiter asked. “Gazeux”, I said, although I was not quite sure if we were talking about consistency or effects.
Then I waited for my soup. To my surprise what I did get was a cold paste, half finely ground meat, half salty bread pudding. I ate it, of course, not wanting to be impolite. Another mild surprise was the veal schnitzel on rice. First of all, there was no rice. I had ordered ris, not riz. How was I to know that spelling was so important in France when you eat out. The meat also looked strange, not at all like what I expected. But when I took a bite I found that it was delicious. I did not ask any questions but enjoyed my lunch. I wrote down the name of the dish so I could learn what it was and order it again one day.
That day came when I had lunch with said lady in California. I do not remember what she ordered but when my plate was set before me she, of course, wanted to know what I got. Now it is not easy to explain to an American girl what weird French food a German might eat for lunch, preferably in one word. So I told her the truth, that it was ris, something very good, the thymus gland of a calf. I should have left it at that but she insisted: “The what?” “It is something found in the entrails, the intestines, the guts so to say. It is very special”. You should have seen her face. She had to swallow before she could say something. Jonathan Swift’s roasted babies could not have shocked her more, and I did not even have my tongue in my cheeks.
We are still together, though. In case you wonder.
(c)2016 by Herbert H. Hoffman