French eat French food. I am not (anymore).

When you are French, you have quite the reputation.
You are supposed, no, expected to be pretty, thin, stylish, romantic, on top of being a great kisser and a master in the art of wrapping a scarf.

Who cares if you are also supposed to smoke 5 packs a day, have hairy armpits and not floss??
(Yep, some stereotypes will never die. The hairy armpits thing apparently stems from the GI of WWII, horrified to see French women shamelessly exhibit this 'shady' part of their anatomy while greeting them during the Liberation. Did it really occur to them that these poor girls had other things on their mind than shaving their underarms?!?!? Gosh...these men....so superficial.)


But one of out most celebrated qualities is also the tastiest one: gastronomy and France seem to have been walking hand in hand for quite a while now, and sure enough, I am most of the time regarded as some sort of supreme judge of food and wine, as if my nationality alone was elevating me to the levels of the posh and sophisticated writers of Bon Appetit magazine, these fierce critics whose sole purpose in life is to dissect every single bite they take, and try to turn it into a edible poem of sorts nobody but themselves understand.
You know them. Nope. No name dropping.
That's really not classy.

The truth is, I was not born that way.
I became a true foodie when I moved to the US.
This may come as a shock, and may very well be to a lot of my friends still out there. The US of A: the Enemy and its intent on imposing the Golden Arch all over the world, destroying everything on, above and below its way to the globalization of taste!!! The Americans don't know how to eat! Look at them! All obese and sitting on their couches! Burgers and pizza! Snickers!
And the decisive argument: They put ketchup on everything......
(what about: they drink coke with their meat? but of course they don't have good wine over there so....they don't know any better.)

Oh yeah. I heard and read these statements over and over again. It is a favorite litany, as if people needed to reassure themselves by denigrating the other, the easy target being this Uncle Sam that everybody strangely hates and loves with the same equal passion.
And yet, they don't know about the true abominations: Twinkies, French dressing (you should have at least the courtesy to leave us out of this), Velveeta, I Can't Believe It's Not Butter and what not...
Would they know, I don't think their heart could go on beating.

Talking about food is probably one of my favorite things. I have always been a curious and avid eater. I went through a rebellious phase where dairy products couldn't possibly find their way down my throat but since I successfully defeated that heresy around the age of 5 (really?!? no yogurt, no cheese, no butter?!?!? Who was that alien hidden inside of me?), I can say that it is almost insignificant in my history. Cauliflower gave me some trouble too, as well as strong cheeses (conquered through nose plugging - French ingenuity) and I have to admit that to this day I am rather picky with my meat. Big chunks of fat, cartilage, tendons.......yeah...nope. I want muscle, Diana Ross style, thankyouverymuch. Other than that I am pretty much game for anything.

But growing up in France does limit one's exposure to the world of food. Sure, French food is worth celebrating and harbors treasures that changed the culinary universe.
The mother sauces, the use of butter, CHEESES - hundreds of them, bread, the ever so important notion of the soil, the terroir. Bordeaux, Beaujolais, Bourgogne, Careme, Brillat-Savarin, Escoffier, the Guide Michelin and its star ratings. A rich heritage that every family tries more or less to live by, to respect, seek and reproduce on its own scale. My mom, a housemaker (Man do I love that expression. It is so.....unfairly deceiving. I used to think that homemaker was a synonym for 'architect'. Ha! so naive) is a good cook. She goes all out for special holiday dinners, and happily spends hours in the kitchen preparing a meal she thought about for months in advance. It's a stressful process. No one is allowed in the kitchen. Twenty dishes, pots and pans later - and a few merde and putain down the way too - the result is not only lovely and pleasant to the eyes, but delicious and refined.
And SO French.
That's the problem.

I was lucky enough though to be exposed to very exotic influences through my stepmother. Born and raised in Madagascar she brought to the dinner table scents, textures and flavors totally unknown to me. And spices. Hot, smoky, tangy - different, foreign, strange, and absolutely disgusting to the eyes of the 8 year-old I was at the time. I complained bitterly about that torture imposed on me to my mom. "She is a horrible cook!!! I hate eating there! It stings!" I used to cry while coming back home every other Sunday night. I gradually learned to love it all, and crave the kick of hot pepper, cayenne, and ginger, the earthiness of cumin, the richness of saffron, the pungency of massalas and five spice.
I discovered Carribean, Indian and Chinese cuisines.
I learned to handle the heat.
To this day my mom can't even eat a sweet mole without choking.

I was 18 when I first started going to restaurants on my own. Well - not exactly; my boyfriend and I would try every restaurant we could think of (and afford) during our first few months of dating. We never stopped. But living outside of Paris, Lyon and a couple of other major cities with livelier restaurant scenes, our options were somewhat limited. For example, we first tried sushi during a trip to the capital while visiting my best friend. You see, we didn't have any Japanese restaurant. I remember very clearly the puzzled looks on our faces while studying the menus. We knew we were in for raw fish but that was about it, and frankly that was already quite enough. Had never heard of the difference between sushi, sashimi, maki. Had no clue on how to use wasabi or pickled ginger. Hated the miso soup.
First experience: major fail. Swore off the Japanese and their 'stuff', and moved on.

So yes. France is a foodie destination, but doesn't do much in terms of educating your palate. It's good, no doubt about it - at least when the cook knows what s/he's doing, which is not guaranteed by any means - but it's also unidimensional, even verging on flat and boring if talent is lacking.
What I discovered here, on the other side of the ocean, is diversity. Vibrancy. Creativity. A melting pot indeed.

A story - a meal? - to be continued.
We have barely touched the menu.