Men and French Food

My wife and I had been in Paris a few days and I had not found Le Grande Restaurants menu to be totally satisfying. A man’s ideal haute cuisine consists of meat, bread, beer, and a side order of potatoes prepared in any fashion. Everything I had been served had been slathered with one sauce or another; and, the size of the portions could only be appreciated by little old ladies on a diet. My severely limited mastery of the French language required me to rely on my wife in dealing with la carte. She had a semester in French in Jr. College and knew all about France and everything else; but, her viande (meat) selections were disappointing because they were always poisson (fish). One day while my wife was shopping at Printemps, I went to a nearby tabac to indulge my nicotine addiction with a pack of Gaulois. Just inside, seated at a table was a portly French gentleman complete with beret, dog, cigarette AND a medium loaf of bread stuffed with meat AND a frosty glass of beer! “Monsieur,” I said, turning to the proprietor. “Jay voo dray – ugh – avec – ugh,” gesturing at the sandwich and beer.   The French gentleman smiled and nodded his approval. “Oui monsieur, un jambon et un verre de biere,” he responded.     I was in pure bliss.   That evening I praised my good fortune to my wife as we strolled along a quai. We had reservations at a bistro nearby. As we were being seated, I sniffed and spotted our neighbors plate of food. Beautiful great chunks of grilled meat and lightly browned potatoes seemed to cry out to me.   Tapping my fork on his plate, I enthusiastically gestured to the waiter. “Jay voo dray – ugh!”   My neighbor shouted, “Qui est cet homme fou qui fait?”   “What’d he say? ” I asked.   My wife whispered, “You don’t want to know.”   To the waiter she said, “Hell have that,” pointing with that cute little finger of hers.   Later that night, back in the hotel room, full as a tick and as contented as a cow, I readied myself for sleep.   A sharp elbow in my ribs and a “we have got to talk” brought me wide-awake and at full attention. I had learned long ago “we have got to talk” translated into “you had better listen with every fiber of your being because something of such import is about to be declared that your very existence depends on your understanding of, and absolute compliance with, it.”   “Dear, you little poo-poo, you must learn a better way of indicating your desire for another person’s – ah – whatever.”   “Yes, dear,” I said.   ” First of all, as you might remember, I had a semester of French in Jr. College and know all about France and everything else. Therefore, I feel adequately qualified to instruct you in proper behavior. Do you agree?”   “Yes, dear,” I replied. “Now, the polite way to indicate what you want is to point. Extend the index finger and point. Do not tap a foreign object or anything on the subject’s plate. Point! Do you understand?” she said.   “Yes, dear,” I sighed.   “And, now listen up. Cut out that ‘jay vood ray’ crap and speak properly. Say instead ‘pour moi, si’l vous plait.’ Go on repeat it.”   “Poor me,” I squeaked.   “No, no, no ! Listen carefully and repeat after me ‘ pour moi , s’il vous plait’.”   “Pour moi,” I carefully parroted. “Good! Wonderful!,” she exclaimed.   “Seal voo play,” I continued.   “Mon Dieu,” she sighed as she rolled her eyes back and rubbed her forehead. “Listen to me ‘pour moi, si’l vous plait.’ Now say that over and over just like I say it as you fall asleep. And the next time you want something – point, and say those words.”   “OK, dear. I’ll try to do better,” I yawned. “But right now I am really tired, so ‘boon new ee, my cherry.'”   The next day, as we taxied to a fancy restaurant, I expanded, in my mind, on my now well-proven hypothesis. As in art, one does not need a lot of knowledge to know what one likes. If it looks good it has got to be good, I decided. I now knew how to eat well without all the trouble of translation.   Upon entering the restaurant and on the way to our table, I spied the most gorgeous serving of steaming, fat speckled meat with what appeared to be roasted slabs of potatoes.   Since our placement was distanced far from my desired selection, when the waiter came with the menu, I rose and taking him by the sleeve led him to the table of dining Japanese gentlemen.   “Monsieur, pour moi,” I said pointing with glee at the object of my desire.   “Mais monsieur, ce sont de la cervelle d’agneau et des oreilles de porc.,” he exclaimed.   “OK!” I exclaimed in return.   I returned to our table proudly, and loudly, declaring my present and future dependence on my spouse in food selection passé. My wife did not seem pleased with my announcement, but I am the man, my body language said!   When the waiter finally brought my order, he mumbled “agneau cervelles (lamb brains) et oreilles de porc (ears of pig).”   Leaning near my wife, I queried, ” Honey, just out of curiosity, what’d he say?”   Patting my arm lovingly, she replied, “I’ll tell you later, darling; meanwhile, bon appetit!” Bonjour Paris is pleased to have Don Andrews as a contributor.