It took a long time, but it finally happened. My sisters Susan and Jane, along with my niece Leah, came to visit me. In my little Peugeot 108 we drove all over the region, we took trains into Paris, visited the town of Saint-Denis and its basilica near the university where I used to teach. We walked in the forest, rooted through junk and treasures at the Paris flea market and, closer to home, at a warehouse of bric and broc, bric-a-brac, run by Emmaüs, the French equivalent of the Salvation Army.
And at a long oak table, each evening we sat for hours to talk, eat and drink, the highpoint of each day. In fact, no matter what we did, food accompanied us, an integral part of all our activities.
At the Parisian flea market, located just outside northern Paris along the beltway dividing the city from its suburbs, we sought refuge from the heat and crowds at a corner café. There we indulged (we were on vacation after all) in traditional café food eaten sur le pouce, literally “on the thumb,” on the run. When there’s so much to do and see there’s no time for a three-course meal!
That’s why we ordered a “jambon-beurre,” a “saucisson-beurre-cornichons,” even a “rillettes-beurre,” in each case a sandwich composed of half of a crispy fresh baguette slashed down the middle, slathered with butter and then filled with a thick slice of ham (jambon), or rounds of dried sausage (saucisson) accompanied by sliced gherkins (cornichons); or pulled pork smothered in goose fat (rillettes). Umm-good! And who’s worrying about cholesterol?
The French are regimented eaters. They eat at fixed hours each day and have a hard time understanding those who step outside the boundaries. We breakfasted late: fresh baguette or country loaves with thick flavorful crusts and moist “innards” composed of a mix of flours, rye (seigle), whole-wheat (blé complet) or spelt (épeautre). Add to that homemade apple jelly, pear and cherry jams, honey from Provence, fresh coffee, a whole crate of peaches from a friend’s tree, you’ll understand why we often got off to a late start.
And that often meant, in mid-afternoon, when traditional French restaurants are closed, we were ready for a snack! Luckily, some bakeries bake their own pizzas and even offer outside tables to sit down; brasseries serve simple meals all day (for example, a galette—a crepe make from buckwheat flour, served with ham, cheese and a fried egg on top), or we could just grab some cheese, a baguette, some peaches and home-grown tomatoes, a feast fit for a queen.
The French are good at food, from the simplest ingredients to the refinement of an official banquet at Elysée Palace, where the French president lives. We experienced both the simplest pleasures and the refinements of French cuisine. On the simple end, the pleasure of eating an egg purchased at a local market a few hours after it was snatched from the nest. My sisters might elect bread and butter as two of the simplest and best ingredients produced by the French. Every day we went to the local boulangerie and bought our baguettes not only fresh but warm.
As for refinement, we devoted much eating time to the subtleties of French patisserie. Not far from my home, there is a bakery with an excellent pastry chef. In that area, expertise and refinement can often be measured by the quality of the standards of French pastry: the simple éclair (how light is the puff pastry, can the filling be all at once light, creamy and scrumptiously delicious?), a tarte au citron or aux framboises, lemon or raspberry tarts (the taste of the fruit, the shortbread crust); a flan, “plain,” chocolate, coconut or pistachio, creamy, eggy and rich in flavor.
Every evening we had a dégustation, a comparative tasting. Among much oohing and aahing, we registered flavors and nuances, determining our favorites and determined to go back to the bakery for more.
My sisters and niece are good cooks and I can hold my own, so mostly we ate at home, but on my sister Jane’s birthday we went out to celebrate at a restaurant with a terrace overlooking the banks of the Oise River. There our dégustation included some dishes we did not make at home, gravlax that melted in the mouth, foie gras, goat’s cheese baked with honey, dorade fish from the Mediterranean, fresh-water perch (filet de sandre), filet mignon of pork, duck (magret de canard), entrecôte, much like a Delmonico steak.
We had dessert too. I indulged (we did a lot of indulging) in profiteroles, puff pastry filled with vanilla ice cream and smothered in hot chocolate sauce.
We all had desert but that did not prevent us from going home for more: pastries with champagne, the grand finale of our celebrations.
Some evenings we cooked up a storm. Some, we simply took advantage of French bounty, fresh green beans and tomatoes from my garden, delicious melon served with prosciutto or in a salad with feta and smoked salmon, cheese and charcuterie trays, and the ever-present baguette, all washed down with rouge, blanc or rosé wine.
To sum up, we had a great time. To conclude the French lesson, I’ll add a few more words and leave the reader with an open-ended question.
Surely, my sisters, my niece and I participated in French gastronomie: the art of eating well. My question consists in this: were we gourmets, gourmands or goinfres?
At its earliest appearance in the French language in the 14th century, a gourmet was a wine merchant, someone who knew how to appreciate fine wines. The word evolved to include those who know how to appreciate the quality and refinement of a meal.
During that same 14th century, the word gourmand entered the language as someone who eats avidly, going for the finest cuts. Today a gourmand likes good food and knows how to appreciate a good meal.
Finally there is the goinfre, a sloppy, greedy eater, a word once associated with debauchery…
In French, the letter G and good eating go together. Now readers, here is my question: which of these “g-words” would you pin on my sisters and me?
