Coffee, Please!

This is a rerun of an early Cassoulet Cafe post...enjoy!

Let's have a little coffee talk. So I'll wait right here while you go pour yourself a cup. If you're not into coffee, any other hot beverage of your choice will suffice. But as for me, I'll be drinking un cafe'.

When we think of coffee, we tend to think of it as the Starter Fluid of the day; a warm companion that we can snuggle up to in the mornings before we face our day. We even go to great lengths to get a paper cup of it later on, maybe placing a group order for a colleague to pick up on her way back from lunch. Each cup check marked in code only a barista (or experienced coffee go-fer) could decipher.

However, in France, things are different. Coffee isn't just the drink, it's the activity. It's the act of sitting down to relax and watch the world go by. Ordering a coffee in a cafe translates into renting your own little piece of La Belle France for as long as you wish to be there. What a bargain! Chairs are strategically placed facing the same direction, lookin' at you kid! If you ever got a complex while touring in France thinking people were staring at you, you were right, they are! But it's not considered ill-mannered. C'est normale, as the French say. It's what you do. People watch.

So in order to rent yourself a slice of France, you just need to know how to order a coffee the way you like it.

My husband was shocked the first time he got a coffee in Paris. He successfully utilized his French lessons to order his favorite hot beverage. But to his dismay the waiter set before him a saucer holding the smallest tea-party sized cup he ever saw, containing a shot of black tar, garnished with a paper-wrapped sugar cube and baby spoon to stir it with. So, as if it was a shot of tequila, he tipped his head back and took one small gulp and voila! It vanished!

Then, he asked me, "Honey, how do I say "refill" in French?"

Now, at this point, anyone who is familiar with France is probably laughing right now. Everyone else, listen up! Refills do not exist in France. Unless you just want to order a whole new coffee and call it a refill to make yourself feel better. But it'll set ya back another 2 bucks or so.

So on his next "refill" he decided to use the sugar cube. It was so cute, wrapped up in decorative paper as if it were the smallest present in the world. He unwrapped it, then carefully lowered it into the precious few ounces of black goo and stirred it with the tiny spoon. However, the amount of sugar was disproportionate to the amount of hot liquid (Cubes big, Coffee Small). So he was in a quandary. Does he order more coffee to dilute the sugar? Or suck down the sickening sweet concoction and say goodbye to coffee in France forever?

Later, after learning there were indeed other ways to order coffee , he quickly honed his skills of ordering it with supplemental ingredients (milk or cream) to increase the volume, therefore extending his sipping pleasure. Café creme, cafe au lait, s'il vous plait.

Something you never see in France is coffee to go. Oh sure, you'll see American tourists in Paris lining up at that certain international chain to get their fix, but the French will be the ones using the tables and drinking from ceramic. Yes, the word "emporter" does mean "to take out", but just because it exists and is even advertised doesn't mean it's the right thing to do when it comes to coffee. I should know. I tried it, twice.

On a road trip from Paris to Brittany, we stopped at a little roadside cafe to counteract the drowsiness. When we walked in, we saw the sign "Café à emporter" behind the bar. I jabbed my husband and said, "Hey! Finally, a place that caters to American coffee drinkers!" So, in my best French I asked for 3 cups of coffee to emporter. The lady looked at me flatly and then said, "Je comprends pas, Madame." I pointed to the sign to explain, and she said, "Yes I understood, but why would you want it to go? Are you sure?"

Then, a few days later on our way back to Paris one morning very early, we stopped at truck stop (no, i didn't know they existed in France either). It looked exactly like a 50's diner you'd encounter on road trip in the States. A long bar with bar stools loaded with big burly truck drivers. Surely, they would do coffee to-go for me here. As I confidently sauntered up to the bar, asked for "Trois cafes à emporter" (3 coffees to go) I heard all 10 truckers whip their heads in my direction and dead silence filled the place. The waitress stared at me. The truckers stared at me, holding their itty-bitty cups of coffee between their fat sausage-like fingers. At that moment, I realized that even big burly truck drivers prefer to drink their coffee sur place and out of a real cup.

I got what I ordered, even if was handed to me in a thin plastic Dixie cup which burned all ten of my fingers.

So the moral of this coffee-flavored story is, when in France, drink coffee as the French. Relax, sit down, take in the sights and sounds around you. This is why you came to France. But under no circumstances, even if it is advertised, order "Un café à emporter".

Arizona, Part 1

So we just got home Sunday night from a "vacation". Hubby had to go to Arizona for work, so we decided to extend it out so we had two weekends to do some touristy things. Our first mistake was flying Allegiant Air. Ok, so it wasn't a total mistake, I mean, who can deny a $29-each-way-flight? Well, there were some catches, like $30 per checked bag, and also that you are obliged to pick your seats for $16 per seat, per way. But we still got a great deal. Which sort of soothed the 2 hour delays going and coming. Sort of.

While we were waiting to depart in the airport, Spazzy The Two Year Old caught an airport worker lady's attention. This lady was nice enough, first commenting on her terrible cough and making sure I gave her some meds for the flight. But then she started talking to Spazzy with the most annoying baby talk I think I've ever heard. I would be safe to say that it would be the kind of baby talk you would stop doing to a baby at, oh, 1 month old max. And she didn't get a clue that it was upsetting Spazzy (thus making life harder for me). And she didn't stop there. She said, "Mom and Dad, can I sing her a little song?" Being that I am usually only rude and confrontational with people in my head, with imaginary replies that I never act on, I nicely said yes to her request, though I was horrified that a stranger was going to sing in front of all these people waiting to get on the same plane as us. I sooooo hate having attention cast in our direction, I'm very self conscious and like to blend in, not stand out.

Well, Crazy Airport Lady's song started, and it was baaaaaad. The voice was bad. The song was nerdy and very newborn-babyish. And it required Spazzy to "wave bye byyyyye". But Spazzy hid under her Cookie Monster (her ugly blue blanket she calls Cookie Monster that is a permanent fixture around her body), and would have none of this interaction the lady so desperately wanted with her. She kept singing the last line over and over, for her to wave bye-byyyyyyye. Spazzy started screaming from under Cookie Monster. The lady still wouldn't get a clue. Finally, I said, "You know, she doesn't feel good, she's been sick and she's a very shy girl." The lady was perplexed that this song works with her grandchild, but not my child. Finally, she left....yes, singing. "Bye byyyyyyyyye". About 20 minutes later, I was strolling Spazzy through the airport for the 39th time that evening, and who should we run into but Crazy Airport Singer Lady! Spazzy screams at the sight of her and CASL starts singing again! I pushed the stroller faster trying to get out of there, this time not even acknowleging the CASL.

Finally, we were cleared to board the plane, after being in the airport for 4 hours. During the flight, Spazzy feel asleep (thankfully, because she thought it was fun to kick the seat in front of her), but "because Allegiant Air is a Vegas-based airline, we are going to do a raffle to win prizes!" screamed the over-zealous flight attendant on the blow-your-ears-out PA system. It was so loud, that I actually acted like a toddler myself and covered my ears and rolled my eyes and made gasping noises. After that was over, luckily Spazzy was still asleep, the toddler across the aisle from me started howling and pummeling his parents. They seemed to be clueless as to how to entertain him. Being more worried about my own discomfort if my toddler woke up, I started trying to entertain this child to get him to pipe down. It worked. But this wasn't me relaxing on the plane with a sleeping toddler. This was work. And I was doing his parents' work! Still, I was too terrified of Spazzy waking up to stop entertaining this boy.

Two hours later, we landed and made our way to the car rental line. It seems like we attract crazy people to talk to us. I don't know why. We don't stare, we don't call attention to ourselves, we don't even make eye contact. But somehow the only drunk woman in the tiny Mesa airport, who by the way dressed and looked like a man, complete with a Hooters baseball cap to to pull off the look, tried to befriend my husband in line. She was loud. She was opinionated. She dropped the F bomb in between each and every word. She had no sense of personal space. And did I mention she was sloshed? She was also named April. She really looked more like an Arnold to me.

We eventually got our rental car, left April/Arnold in the dust, and added another loud-mouthed, opinionated traveler to our group of five. Her name was Fergie. Fergie Garmin....give a give a give a give a Garrrrmin. I shouldn't harp on Fergie, she did get us to Panda Express in a jiffy, Starbucks when we needed it, and most importantly she found an In n Out Burger! But she did try to kill us once. Driving up to the steep road to the Prescott Resort, she commanded us to take a right....right off a cliff! And once she was very emphatic that we had arrived at our destination, when it was just a empty lot in the desert with a lone saguaro cactus and not the steakhouse we thought we were going to. She also woke Spazzy up with her commands, or forgot to command us at all. We think Fergie is the great-grandmother of the Garmins.

To be continued....

Fergie-licious

I Think I Ate A.....(meow)

So, we left off with the Cabo story yesterday. As I was saying, we were strolling down the street and decided to just wing it and find a restaurant on our own. As we were approaching the Hacienda del Cuervo, there was a lively mariachi band playing at the entrance to beckon us to come in. We hesitated, but after glancing at the daily special posted, we decided the price was great, the atmosphere looked great, and the band was great. How bad could it be? And we might have a new favorite restaurant logged in our travel memories.

We were quickly ushered through an open air courtyard and seated. There were about 30 tables and exactly three of them had customers seated; including us. We ordered the special right away (3 tacos, chicken, beef, fish and one beer: $5) and as we waited for them, I looked over to the nearest occupied table and the American couple seated was arguing with the server about his bill. Details are sketchy, but American couple was standing their ground, despite the 9 mafia-looking servers standing to the side, hands behind their backs, watching the patrons every move, and taking turns approaching the table to find out why they were being so "difficult".

Suddenly, the happy, festive music stopped. I looked to the entrance of the courtyard where they had been playing, and realized, they weren't the Hacienda del Cuervo band; they were roving from one eatery to the next. For some reason, it gave me a crystal clear signal that things were not as they appeared on the other side of the courtyard gate.

It was very quiet, and the two other tables of customers had very worried expressions. I looked at Hubby and said, "Let's get outta here. I have a creepy feeling." If it weren't for the beers we were drinking and the food we'd already ordered (oh, and a dozen mafioso looking dudes staring at us), we'd have bailed.

Then came the bizarro exchange. One of the waiters, very young, maybe 15ish, came to the table and Hubby asked him a question. Bizarro laughed really, really hard. Hubby laughed along with him, to sort of soften the awkwardness of what we thought was a language barrier. Bizarro's eyes suddenly turned e-vil and he mocked Hubby's laugh, as if Hubby had been firstly mocking his laugh. Un. comfortable. Bizarro walked away, El Ticked Off-o.

Our food arrived and the presentation was actually good. There were three rolled tacos, stacked and garnished in such a way that would make Ramsay proud. Bizarro had a weird smirk on his face while he gave us our food, however. I tried to brush it off and chalk him up as "not right". Now, there were supposed to be three kinds of meat, chicken, fish and beef. The first one I took a bite of was stark white meat. I chewed, and chewed and chewed. The mafia was watching every bite we took...(*imagine crickets chirping*) More chewing, no swallowing. It was not fish. But it definitely wasn't chicken. Or even pork. I looked at Hubby. He was still chewing his first bite as well. We had panicked faces, but decided to try the next taco. I had to discreetly spit my food into my napkin. I just couldn't swallow it, it was like a tough piece of steak that just wouldn't go away.

I bit into the next taco, and the meat was identical looking. I cut open the third taco. Identical stark white, stringy meat. We chugged our beers, and asked for the check. They totally overcharged us by double, but we were so uncomfortable and sick to our stomachs, that we just paid and left. The whole time, the servers and kitchen crew were standing on the stairs watching us. It was the craziest restaurant experience I've ever had, and I just had a terrible feeling I couldn't shake the rest of the trip.

Later that night, we finally discussed it. It was like the experience was too hideous to talk about for several hours. We analyzed the white meat. We went over and over what meat it couldn't be, because of the missing obvious characteristics of poultry or fish. It was unidentifiable. There was no other meat like it that we've ever had.

And that is when we decided, it was probably cat.

PS. If you click on the link, you'll see the restaurant is now out of business. Hmmm...wonder why?

PPS. Who here thinks I did eat a cat? Could anyone help soothe my soul by telling me another less repulsive possibility?

My Big Fat Greek Story, Part One

It took years for me to convince my father to go to France for a visit. He didn't even go with my mother to see us when we were living there. He is a homebody, he likes his recliner when he's not working, and now that he owns a laptop, that sweetened the deal. Finally, he succumbed and agreed that he would go with us in March/April '08. But there was a stipulation: If he was going all that way, he wanted to go to Greece, to the island where his father was born and grew up.

That was fine with me, however, being that the dollar was down, and we are five, we just couldn't swing it for ourselves. Besides, we knew we'd need a break from each other by then! My dad's father died when my dad was 15. My dad's mother, who I refuse to call Grandma, is not a nice person. She disowned my dad when he started studying the Bible with the religion he became. When Dad was little, she kicked my his father out for another guy. My grandmother, who refused to allow my dad to call his own father "Dad", but instead by his first name, also refused to let my dad use his real last name; a very Greek, but unique last name. When my Dad started studying the Bible, his mother told him to stop using the stepdad's last name that she had all his life forced on Dad, and told him to now start using his father's last name, because he was "dragging the stepdad's family name through the mud." Nevermind that the step dragged his own name through the mud, in ways I won't even elaborate on here. This man, I have only seen once, because he was a disgusting human being who every decent person in our family called The Nazi. The Nazi and The Dragon Lady, is what they were called.

So, because Dad can tend to be stubborn, he refused to stop using The Nazi's last name (after all, he was only 20, newly married, rebelling against his mom and stepdad's abuse). He regrets this decision today not to take back his rightful Greek name.

Dragon Lady assured Dad that there were no family members left on the island that my grandfather was born on. They all fled to Egypt, or were killed, she said. We did internet searches on the last name, but to no avail. There was not one good lead. As I said before, all we had were family legends and some photos.

We have family photos of Dad's aunts and uncles, siblings of his father. We know the names, we know what happened to some of them. Still, no leads to any family left on the island. This is why I felt like my parents' time and money to go to this island was going to be somewhat wasted. Don't get me wrong, I thought it would be very neat for my dad to see what his father saw as a young boy. But I didn't want Dad to get his hopes up in finding family.

First they spent 4 days in Athens, and Mom said that Dad kept talking to everyone they met about his father and his real last name, and did they ever hear of anyone with that last name? Nevermind that it was like finding a needle in a haystack, he persevered. (I am told by a guy from Greece that this is most definitely a Greek thing, and that Dad didn't embarrass himself.) :)

In Athens, he got the number of a friend of a friend that lives on the island of my grandfather. So when my parents arrived for their 3 day stay on the island, they immediately called this person, who happens to be the same religion as us. Happy, this man who I'll call G. told my parents to meet him in the center of the village at 6pm, he would come meet them.

Meanwhile, my parents explored and visited with local townspeople, who were very willing to listen to my father's story of island heritage. Each person said they hoped he would find family, or even land! (Is that Greek or what?) As they were telling the hotel owner, who spoke perfect English, he got all excited and shouted that they must follow him to the Town Hall to tell them the story and find some records of family members. It was just next door. When they left, they had in possession a an officially stamped and sealed family document!

Yes, it's true, Grandfather was born here! Here was the date of his birth, all the siblings, the parents, and others. Everything was just as we thought. Including the confirmation that all the family left the island and there were none left.

Very satisfied that they at least accomplished something, even if it didn't lead to actual family members, my parents left the building to go meet G. This was more than they really hoped for.

So at 6pm, they waiting at the meeting point. G. came driving up and introduced himself and his kids to my parents, and then said, "Get in the car, we take you to our house for coffee and visiting." Stunned, a little worried, but taken by the friendliness and sincerity of G., they got in the car. (Mind you, this is not a city, and he was a friend of a friend.)

G. took them to his house, and they started visiting over some Greek coffee. Dad explained that he was the first family member to come to Grandfather's Island, they just got a document with a family tree, and they were happy. G. said, "Tell me the family name of your father." So, Dad told him. Stunned silence.

G said, "Excuse me for a moment, I have a phone call to make." My Dad does not understand Greek anymore, but it was very evident there was excitement going on this end of the phone call. There were intermittent questions asked of my dad by G. about family history, places, dates, names. My dad answered all of them. G was getting louder and louder on the phone, smiles, big, excited Greek gestures...my parents were sitting there wondering what in the world was going on or about to happen.

G hangs the phone up. Looks up at my parents, and said, "You have a cousin. I know her. She lives here on the island. She is on her way over right now."

To be continued......

What's Wrong With France?

As you know, I am having technical difficulties, but I can still read and Google just fine. I just got done reading and celebrating the newly famous (but with-me-from-the-beginning) My Inner French Girl's latest post. She has been happily outed by New York Times!

It got me wondering how one would find out that their blog was mentioned in the media. Well, I decided to Google "cassoulet cafe blog" to see if anyone besides my blogging buddies have ever heard of my blog. The only thing that came up was my blog and one other mention. It is a button on the side bar of La French Page website. That in itself is not interesting. What is interesting is the description of my blog. It goes like this:
Cassoulet Cafe Blog: An American's View of What is Wrong With France.

While I appreciate the link, I'm sort of shocked with the description. To set the record straight, I think that I show what's wrong and right with France.

Now after reading the NYTimes article on freebies thrown at beauty bloggers, should I expect some free cassoulet thrown my way? All in the name of reviewing, bien sur! Or better yet, maybe a cassoulet meal at a renowned cassoulet restaurant in Toulouse or Castlenaudary during our stay?

Something tells me the people at Spanghero or La Cave au Cassoulet don't read Cassoulet Café Blog. ;) I'm glad you do!

My Own Personal Seinfeld Moment

The other day, La Belette Rouge posted about the probability of her getting to fly Business Class on her flight to Paris in July. In tribute to her post, I would like to tell you my experience of a trans-Atlantic flight on Business Class.

The year was 2005, the plane was an Airbus long haul craft operated by Lufthansa, the destination was Rome. The origin was somewhere on the West Coast. We were a family of four, traveling with a so-called Friend. :)

We invited Friend to come with us on this trip, as she usually traveled with us, and she happily discovered that she had enough miles to fly Business Class.

When we got to the airport, she tried to convince the gal at the counter to upgrade our family, so we could be with her in luxury. The lady said sure. But it would cost us dearly. $850. Per person! Each way.

As we boarded the flight, said our goodbye's to Friend and parted ways, she assured us she would come back and check on us. Incidentally, we were in the 2nd row behind The Curtain, which separated the classy people from the sardines (us). That meant that we were literally just a few steps away from Friend, with The Curtain being a one-way prison door to be used only by Biz Class who wanted to come see how bad it was back here and laugh at Family of Four having a nightmare flight. (No, she did not laugh, really).

But I was impressed with Lufthansa. They were efficient, clean and the seats weren't as bad as the hellish flight to Paris on Air Canada a few years before. (LBR described our flight exactly in her post). Lufthansa fed us well, we had good movies, and it was so far the best long haul flight we'd had.

Six hours into the flight, Friend decided to get out of her cocoon and come check on us. She made the 9 steps trek down into the belly of the beast (Coach) and with a smile asked how our dinner was. I raved about the Greek Pasta for dinner, we said the seats were not bad, and "by the way, I thought you were coming to check on us like 5 hours ago?" She smiled and said she had been busy with dinner. "So what did you have for dinner?" I asked.

She hesitated. Then she said, "Well.....um....Snow crab." Snow crab?! I said, disgusted, because I love snow crab!

Then she said, "Well, that was the starter. Then I had...." and she proceeded to tell me all the courses presented, and "did I mention they dressed my table with linens and china?" Thank you, dear Friend, for mentioning that as well. I really hated my arm-rest tray that had a coffee ring from the previous flight still on it. I could have used that linen table cloth.

Then she said, "I have a present for you." And she handed me a pair of long, blue, thick Lufthansa socks. I asked where they came from and she said, "Oh, in my goody-bag I got when I boarded. I thought you might need them back here." Goody bag??? I snatched them from her and promptly stuck my lower class feet into them and decided that I was definitely made for Biz Class.
I needed to take some meds and could not get the flight attendant's attention to ask for some water, to Friend said she'd go get me some from her section. She popped back through The Curtain with a glass of water for me. A GLASS, a real glass. I began to laugh and said, "We're gonna get busted for being caught with this!"

After I gulped it down, she took it and said, "Ok, I'll go back to my seat now, but I'll make sure and send you back some of the warm, fresh baked cookies when they're ready."

Well, we never got them (I think she passed out in her cocoon seat) and when we landed in Frankfurt we made our way through customs and to our gate to wait the 2 hours until the connecting flight to Rome was ready for boarding. We sat down on uncomfortable (efficient)German airport chairs, feeling like death because of the flight and the fact that our bodies were screaming out "It's 2am!", when Friend announces with a look of guilt upon her face, "Um, could you watch my stuff, I'm gonna go into The Lounge." What is THE LOUNGE? I knew nothing of a so-called Lounge, other than where we were supposed to lounge, and we were already there.

"Well, they have a Business Class lounge for those flying in Biz Class. Do you want me to get you some coffee in there?"

I think that at that point, I decided that we never should have invited Friend on the trip at all, and how could she ditch us for The Lounge, after just having 12 hours of pure luxury?!
She came back about an hour later bearing gifts for the kids. She brought gummy bears and cookies. Then she handed me her boarding pass and said, "They didn't check my ID at all. Take this and go inside! I left early so you could go!" She was so excited for me to go in, but I was terrified. What if they caught me? Would I get arrested by the Airport Police and be deported without my family?
I walked to the inconspicuous door that led to The Lounge. When I opened the door, there was a marble floor and seated at the desk was a lady with perfect makeup and a French Twist. I showed her the pass and she smiled and pointed the way. I opened the huge double doors and as I entered The Lounge, I swear I heard a choir singing "Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" It was fabulous! It was all leather! There was a cookie buffet and espresso machines and a bar! There was a sign pointing the way to the showers! Whaaaa?!

I got a cappuccino, and sat down in one of the leather chairs that instantly began to massage my poor, sore, Coach Class bum.

But I could not fully relax. I felt out of place. I was ragged from 12 hours of coach, and I couldn't help feeling completely guilty sitting in luxury while Hubby and kids were out in the torture chamber, heads bobbing violently because the body was on Pacific Standard Time.

I think I lasted all of 8 minutes. I walked out, cursing rich people and diligent Mileage Plus hoarders who didn't make the mistake of prematurely cashing in their miles for a coach class ticket to Cabo.
I got a taste of Business Class. It's something I can't forget now. It's something that I will dwell on the entire flight this coming spring, when we are squished in like sardines, with no warm cookies to console us and no eye-masks so we can at least try to go to a Happy Place in our minds and shut out the annoying seat-neighbors.

I will, however, accrue miles on this flight and then have enough to go to Hawaii. Coach Class.

You're A Corker!

As I read La Belette Rouge's list of what she was going to buy in a Paris Pharmacie, it made me think of what I went into the pharmacie for two years ago, the last time I was in Paris. LBR's list was so exotic, chic and trés interesting. I never really spent much time looking at products in them, because I was always there for a specific item, or to talk to the pharmacist about an ailment. One thing in France that is cool, is that you can give the pharmacist your symptoms and they can prescribe you a medicament on the spot.

Which brings us back to the last pharmacie we went to in Paris. We had been to Italy the previous week and arrived in Paris for a two day stay to visit my friend, who I'll call S. Before we met up with her, my hubby reluctantly summoned me for major help. He only had to say one word, bouchon, for me to know that I was going to have to do some embarrassing translating.

Bouchon is a longstanding joke with us, thanks to S. She was visiting us in the States when she pulled out some medicine once and told me she had to take it because she didn't want a bouchon. Bouchon means cork. You figure it out.

As I moaned and groaned about asking the pharmacist for the proper tire-bouchon magic pill, Hubby says, "And don't you dare say it's for me!" Suuuuuure, sweetie-pie. I told him not to worry, I'd take care of it.

So I'm now in the position of being in the most glamorous city in the world, asking for the most unglamorous of items. Pas chic. I walked up to the counter where there was a young, pretty pharmacist ready to help. I told her quietly what I was looking for. She started asking me all these questions that needed detailed answers and, red-faced, I betrayed my husbands honor and blurted out "Oh Madame, I don't have this problem. It's my husband over there (hiding behind the Band-Aids) who has the issue and needs the pills....but he doesn't want you to know. But don't worry, he doesn't speak French!" She looked at me, understanding, and I knew what she was thinking...she thought I was a really crotte-y wife.

So, I guess I got paybacks for that, because a few days later when we were in Toulouse, as my husband and kids rode a carousel in the park, I sort of jogged over towards it to grab the video camera from my Hubby and I tripped on the power cord of the carousel....and in the most nerdy, geeky and un-chic way, fell right onto all fours in front of my family, my friends and the French lady who sneered and rolled her eyes as if I had no right to trip in front of her. She must have had a bouchon.

Job Descriptions

We live in a country where Customer Service exists and is pretty darn good. Customer Service does not exist in France. Well, not as we know it in the United States, anyway. This can really be infuriating if you need to get something accomplished or just accomplish getting through the day without getting ticked off. Take for example the French policy of returning items to the store for exchange or refund. Oh wait, it doesn’t exist. Each item we purchase, be it a washcloth or a small appliance, is carefully checked out and debated between us, because we know that in France, the customer was always wrong. Even if said appliance spontaneously combusts. This really puts the pressure on, because I hate retail commitment, especially in light of my bad luck; if there is a defective one of something , I’ll be the one to buy it. Even if I reach in the wayyyyyy back of the shelf and grab the untouched one, it’ll be sure to be the malfunctioning one. Even if I, against my better judgment, grab the first one, it’ll be the faulty one. And why can’t I bring it back if I have the receipt, mean French lady at the counter?

Maybe it’s not her job. Because we heard that a lot. My brother was living in Switzerland at the time we were in Toulouse and one day he hopped a train to surprise us. Settling in on the train, he fell asleep. While he was in a deep slumber, the train stopped somewhere along the way, split in two, and went their separate ways. One half going to Toulouse, the other half going to Spain. When the train-half that my brother was on stopped at the final destination, he woke up. But not in France. He was, you guessed it, on the wrong half.

He had to buy another ticket from Port Bou, Spain, to Toulouse.

Being that he didn’t speak French and I did, I decided to stand up for my brother like any big sister should, and become his personal translator and get some compensation! I never would have thought of this on my own, but every person we reported the story to said, “That qualifies for a refund! You must explain the situation to SNCF and they will give you compensation. ”

After standing in line at the train station for almost an hour, we finally got up to the counter. There was another mean looking lady. I smiled and greeted her (with no reciprocation) and I told her at great length what happened and how traumatized my brother had been to have opened his eyes to see he was not in a familiar place…. The lady apathetically stared at us and after a long pause she said, “I’m sorry, but you are in the wrong line. You must go over there, because this is not my job to help you.”

She pointed us to a lady at a desk, so we walked over. We were told to sit down in the waiting area and…wait. We waited for almost 30 minutes while she sat at her desk typing. When we were finally called over, I again translated the story of what happened. She listened as if she was going to care. I included, “Since my brother was never informed when he bought the ticket that the train was going to be severed, and that he should sit on the France end of it, he is entitled to some sort of compensation. After all, can you imagine how traumatized to wake up and find you are in another country? “

She just looked at me and said, “We cannot compensate your brother for his mistake. And besides, this is not my job. You were supposed to be at that lady’s desk over there, she’s the one who deals with this kind of thing. This is not my job, Madame.” And she pointed to a desk about 20 feet away, where the young woman (girl) was just sitting and looking bored. My brother began to raise his voice and I stopped translating. Frustrated that I didn’t continue the translation, his voice got louder and louder. I calmed him down and said, “Let’s just go over to the girl at the other desk.”

So we did. We (again!) explained the unfortunate events of the previous day’s journey and it wasn’t falling on deaf ears, but sympathetic ears that resulted in a profuse apology. Finally, we thought, someone who will take pity on us and give us compensation (now in our minds it wasn’t compensation for the train splitting anymore, but compensation that we had to endure the French work ethic!) But then, she said something that should not have shocked me since it seemed to be the thought of the day. ”But I’m sorry, this isn’t my job. I cannot help you. You have to go through the door behind me into office number 100 and talk to someone in there.”

At that point in time, I informed my brother his translator had quit and he was on his own. Because the only thing I cared about then, was getting away from all French SNCF employees. And besides, translating is not my job!

It didn’t go well in room 100. And there was no compensation. But I, thankfully, was no longer involved.

But just when you think you have it all figured out, “they” change it again on you. A few weeks later, Hubby’s brother and another friend came to visit us. It was their first time in a foreign country and things had not started off smoothly. They decided to fly into CDG Paris and take a train to Toulouse. (And yes, they were warned about the tractor/TGV collision.) They were told by someone at the airport they could not buy train tickets at that train station; they would need to go to one in the center of Paris. So they bought tickets to that particular station, found the ticket counter and successfully purchased them.

And then the same man who sold the tickets to them said, “Oh, by the way, you aren’t leaving from this train station. You must go to Gare du Nord (which was across the city from where they were!) and your train is leaving in 20 minutes, so you won’t have time to make the train!”

They tried anyway and as they made it all the way across town and onto the platform they showed an SNCF employee their ticket and as she looked at it she said, “Oh, see that train that’s just pulling away? That is your train. You missed it.”

Feeling like jumping in front of a moving train, they purchased yet another set of tickets from this lady who informed them they “must buy First Class tickets, but you will be going standby. “ What that meant, they later found out, was they paid for First Class seats but ended up in the luggage portion between the train cars, taking turns sitting on a pull down seat the size of a small pizza box. Why they couldn’t have paid Second Class prices for the no-class “seat” is something we’ll never know. But I'm sure it wasn't her job anyway!

They finally made it to Toulouse, about six hours later than we estimated. We took them home, fed them and let them sleep. We hit it hard touring the next day. When they could take no more, we stopped at Place St. Georges, for refreshing drinks. Bro-in Law said with a heavy sigh, “All I want is a Pepsi with ice!” and Our Friend said, “And all I want is a water with lemon!” Hubby and I looked at each other and burst into fits of laughter . It was one of those moments of relief or a pressure release....having other Americans (and family at that) to share our bottled up, frustrating un-American experiences with. Trying to gain our composure we said, “Um, we’ve been here for three months now and we’ve yet to get a cube of ice in a drink, and forget about something as luxurious as a lemon to go with your water! It’ll never happen!”

We ordered our boissons and told tales of warm Cokes being the norm in France, and how lucky we were to have ice at the flat, and how the French guests we had over begged us not to put ice in their drinks. Clearly disappointed, our guests just moped and withered in the heat and 100 percent humidity.

And then the waiter brought our tray of drinks. There was a Pepsi for Bro-in-Law, garnished with… a lemon! And a bottle of water with an extra glass of ice to the brim for Our Friend. They looked at each other, traded luxuries and burst into laughter. Hubby and I sat in stunned silence and then we all laughed ourselves silly.

Un Café, S'il Vous Plaît!

Let's have a little coffee talk. So I'll wait right here while you go pour yourself a cup. If you're not into coffee, any other hot beverage of your choice will suffice. But as for me, I'll be drinking un cafe'.

When we think of coffee, we tend to think of it as the Starter Fluid of the day; a warm companion that we can snuggle up to in the mornings before we face our day. We even go to great lengths to get a paper cup of it later on, maybe placing a group order for a colleague to pick up on her way back from lunch. Each cup check marked in code only a barista (or experienced coffee go-fer) could decipher.

However, in France, things are different. Coffee isn't just the drink, it's the activity. It's the act of sitting down to relax and watch the world go by. Ordering a coffee in a cafe translates into renting your own little piece of La France for as long as you wish to be there. What a bargain! Chairs are strategically placed facing the same direction, lookin' at you kid! If you ever got a complex while touring in France thinking people were staring at you, you were right! they are! But it's not considered ill-mannered. C'est normale, as the French say. It's what you do. People watch.

So in order to rent yourself a slice of France, you just need to know how to order a coffee the way you like it.

My husband was shocked the first time he got a coffee in Paris. He successfully utilized his French lessons to order his favorite hot beverage. But to his dismay the waiter set before him a saucer holding the smallest tea-party sized cup he ever saw, containing a shot of black tar, garnished with a paper-wrapped sugar cube and baby spoon to stir it with. So, as if it was a shot of tequila, he tipped his head back and took one small gulp and voila! It vanished!

Then, he asked me, "Honey, how do I say "refill" in French?"

Now, at this point, anyone who is familiar with France is probably laughing right now. Everyone else, listen up! Refills do not exist in France. Unless you just want to order a whole new coffee and call it a refill to make yourself feel better. But it'll set ya back another 2 bucks or so.

So on his next "refill" he decided to use the sugar cube. It was so cute, wrapped up in decorative paper as if it were the smallest present in the world. He unwrapped it, then carefully lowered it into the precious few ounces of black goo and stirred it with the tiny spoon. However, the amount of sugar was disproportionate to the amount of hot liquid (Cubes big, Coffee Small). So he was in a quandary. Does he order more coffee to dilute the sugar? Or suck down the sickening sweet concoction and say goodbye to coffee in France forever?

Later, after learning there were indeed other ways to order coffee , he quickly honed his skills of ordering it with supplemental ingredients (milk or cream) to increase the volume, therefore extending his sipping pleasure. Café creme, cafe au lait, s'il vous plait.

Something you never see in France is coffee to go. Oh sure, you'll see American tourists in Paris lining up at that certain international chain to get their fix, but the French will be the ones using the tables and drinking from ceramic. Yes, the word "emporter" does mean "to take out", but just because it exists and is even advertised doesn't mean it's the right thing to do when it comes to coffee. I should know. I tried it, twice.

On a road trip from Paris to Brittany, we stopped at a little roadside cafe to counteract the drowsiness. When we walked in, we saw the sign "Café à emporter" behind the bar. I jabbed my husband and said, "Hey! Finally, a place that caters to American coffee drinkers!" So, in my best French I asked for 3 cups of coffee to emporter. The lady looked at me flatly and then said, "Je comprends pas, Madame." I pointed to the sign to explain, and she said, "Yes I understood, but why would you want it to go? Are you sure?"

Then, a few days later on our way back to Paris one morning very early, we stopped at truck stop (no, i didn't know they existed in France either). It looked exactly like a 50's diner you'd encounter on road trip in the States. A long bar with bar stools loaded with big burly truck drivers. Surely, they would do coffee to-go for me here. As I confidently sauntered up to the bar, asked for "Trois cafes à emporter" (3 coffees to go) I heard all 10 truckers whip their heads in my direction and dead silence filled the place. The waitress stared at me. The truckers stared at me, holding their itty-bitty cups of coffee between their fat sausage-like fingers. At that moment, I realized that even big burly truck drivers prefer to drink their coffee sur place and out of a real cup.

I got what I ordered, even if was handed to me in a thin plastic Dixie cup which burned all ten of my fingers.

So the moral of this coffee-flavored story is, when in France, drink coffee as the French. Relax, sit down, take in the sights and sounds around you. This is why you came to France. But under no circumstances, even if it is advertised, order "Un café à emporter".

Part Two: The Train Incident

This is Part Two, as well as the finale to my story of our first days in France. I know it's long, but it's the foundation to my new blog. Tomorrow we'll discuss something simple...coffee. :)

After touring Paris for two days, we were ready to get to our final destination and our new life. Mode of transport: train. TGV train! TGV is the acronym for train à grande vitesse (high speed train), which is precisely why I wanted to be on this train. The eight hour journey would be reduced to only five. We would race by castles and vineyards, make minimal stops and arrive with enough hours left in the day to spend them sitting in a café relishing the fact that we now officially lived in the country. The other train, the low-priced one that stopped with frequency and arrived hours later, was not for us I decided. We wanted to become French as soon as possible and the TGV was our ticket.

We got up early, allowing extra time to navigate the cobblestones, and headed to the metro stop. It was a daunting expedition of dodging poodle poop, waiting for the delayed metro and climbing lots of stairs. We lost so much time waiting for the metro that we literally had to run for the last thirty minutes of our trek, luggage (and daughter) flying in the wind. We knew the speedy trains left on the dot and we were not going to miss that train for anything, after all, we paid extra for these seats!

We found our train at the platform with just seconds to spare. We hurled our luggage onto the steps, jumped aboard and just then the train moved. WHAT A LUCKY BREAK! We appreciated how close we'd come to missing it and ending up on the second-rate train.

As the train moved on, we could relax knowing we'd soon be in the familiar care of my relatives who would be meeting us at the train station. Well, I was the one who could relax. Hubby was in front of me suddenly feeling queasy. He couldn't talk, he started stripping off his extra clothing. Of course, still wanting perfection in these first few days, I insisted he wasn't really going to vomit. After all, he’s never been a puker. He was just tired. And the stench in our section of the train was probably adding to his nausea. What was that smell anyway? He jumped up and bolted for the WC.

After that and a couple hours of sleep, he awoke feeling much better, and said it wasn't the stench that made him puke, but it was all the layers of clothing he'd worn during the marathon we ran that morning.
We chitchatted about our new life in the Old World and things rolled along slickly. I looked at the time and noticed we only had about an hour's journey left. I figured it was way past time for my daughter to use the toilet. We got up and entered the cramped water closet, strewn with used toilet paper and missed shots. Beurk. (French for "yuck!) I imagined a prison cell might not be much different. Claustrophobia set in. I urged Little Girl to hurry up, and as she did, there was an interruption in the smooth-as-glass train ride. Lurching, squealing, screeching, and sudden halting. As I fell onto my daughter, I suddenly reached for the door, scared of being trapped like rats, and pulled it open with all my might, slamming it into my daughter's forehead.

Little Girl was crying and saying, "Why did you do that?! You hurt me! And everyone saw my butt!"

I grabbed her, ran to our seats and yelled, "What happened?" Hubby said it seemed we hit something. But no one, no one in our train car made any inquiries or even acted like anything was out of the ordinary. They all kept reading their books, talking on their mobile phones, or sleeping. I inquired to a woman behind me and she said, "I think we've just stopped." Yes, I know.

The engine seemed to be off. Then after about 10 minutes, finally it started up! Relief! We'd be leaving soon. We weren't, after all, at a train stop. We were on the tracks in the middle of the countryside. In the middle of nowhere.

Then, the train shut off. Then it started up again. Then it shut off just as quickly. This pattern continued for the next two hours with no one ever questioning what was going on. As it approached the lunch hour, as if on command, mobile phones were being extracted out of purses and pockets. Calls were made. Eavesdropping to get a clue if there was an explanation that only the French people knew about, I heard only things like, "It looks like I won't be there for lunch....The train is stopped....No, I don't know what is going on....Yes, it's strange but I'll call you when we get there."

Why isn't anyone investigating why we're sitting on the tracks in the middle of France? Why is everyone so calm? C'est normale?

My husband now informs me he saw a village sign at the last train stop a couple kilometers back before we were immobilized. The sign said AGEN. Ok, I have a tourist's guide to France, I'll look up Agen. Very nice, it's the prune capitol of France. I should mention that I hate prunes. It seems ironic that everything had come to an abrupt stop in the prune capitol of the world.

Finally, after two and a half hours of discussing possible scenarios (always coming to the conclusion that the train hit something), a passenger (not an SNCF employee) came into our car and babbled something in French. I did not catch it because I was not warned he was coming to make an announcement, so I didn't have my French Ears on. (He was also the same passenger who ran through our train car moments after the halt and yelled “Accident! Accident!“ to which not a single person even looked up to acknowledge his presence.) But this time they listened and without hesitation, everyone quietly got up, grabbed their suitcases and started disembarking without asking any questions or making any protests.

I was paralyzed with fear. Was there a bomb? Were we hijacked? What did he say? When my husband looked at me for the translation I snapped, "I don't know! Oh my gosh, what is going on?"

As the flood of unruffled Frenchies were flowing past our seats, I heard the most exquisite sound I'd heard in days. A smiling 20-ish girl said in American English, "Hey Guys! Did you understand what's going on? He said the train wrecked and we're supposed to get off now because they are sending buses to bring us to the train station." With an enormous sigh of relief I could only say, "Thank God you're American!!!"

We gathered our things, no small feat, and followed everyone else. Hubby walked to the front of the train to see if anything was on the tracks. What he saw would explain the sounds of twisted metal and the grinding wheels hours before. It wouldn't, however, explain why they ever even tried to start the train back up. It would have gone nowhere.

There was a gaping hole in the nose of the TGV. Armed with the video camera, my husband recorded it for posterity. Video proof that would end up being essential for future story-telling purposes. Especially since this event never even made it into the news. I think there was a cover-up.

We followed the masses through a field, through some bushes, and ended up next to a road. We waited for something to happen. No one talked. No one fussed. A college girl entertained our Little One by pointing out a verre de terre (earthworm). After about 30 minutes, two buses could be seen off in the distance. Finally, we would be saved and taken to my worried uncle who surely had no news of our whereabouts.

As the buses rolled to a stop, these Frenchies who were so calm and quiet in the midst of tragedy the last few hours suddenly did a 180. They became loud and aggressive when it was time to queue. Their me-first attitude caused them to literally shove us out of the way, take cuts in line, throw their bags into the basin of the bus, then leap inside to stake their claim. The first bus filled up in a flash. As Hubby was loading the last of our suitcases into the belly of the second bus, the driver announced that bus was full! We scrambled to retrieve our property, just in time as the flap came slamming down by the driver, sans compassion.

The group of French college girls who had befriended our four year old noticed our misfortune and pulled their own bags off the bus and said in broken English, "We will wait here with you for another bus." I was stunned. After being shoved by all sorts of people (older women included) this group of six young women left their sure spots to stay with us and take us under their wings. At that moment, my attitude changed. We could make it to our final destination without cursing all of France for the way we'd been treated by The Rude Ones.

When the next bus came, we got on with little drama. There were plenty of seats for the remaining castaways. But, even tragedies in France don't prevent les francais from lunching. There were individual lunch platters served. We got two of them, for the three of us. The lady next to my husband scowled at him and, being the kind person he is, he offered his to her. She snatched it as if he'd stolen it from her in the first place. No merci, monsieur from her.

We finally got to our train station, hours after the economical, non-TGV train had dropped off it's load and left. We were exhausted and homesick. How would we ever get word to my uncle?
We were just stepping into the crowded station when I reached for my camera case (which also contained my eye glasses.) It was not there. In our confusion, we had left it on the crippled train. As I was telling a person at the counter, we looked out into the sea of worried people coming to pick up their loved ones that had been trapped on our train. I saw him. Out of the hundreds of faces, I spotted My Uncle. We screamed his name and he came. He had been so worried about us and he seemed to be just as relieved to see us and we were to see him.

As we rode in his car to his 17th century farmhouse out in the rolling hills of tournesols, we'd never felt so happy to be anywhere. As we pulled up the driveway, we saw the rest of the family out front waiting to bathe us in bisous and nurse our emotional wounds and culture shock.

So it started off rocky. But as I type this, I have a slight smile across my face that only comes with a fond memory. I love telling this story. I'm glad that we saw the rudeness contrasted with the acts kindness. It didn't end there. That evening, SNCF called to let us know they had found my camera case and were holding it until we could come retrieve it.

Oh, and after a few phone calls my uncle found out it was a tractor that the train hit. No worries, the man who misjudged the speed of this train jumped off in time. And then called the farmer he borrowed it from to bear the bad news.

Every word of this is true.

Our First Days as Expats

I have so many things to write about, analyze and discuss when it comes to France but I feel that I can't begin unless I get a relate our first days in France as expats.

I still can't believe I had convinced my husband to move to France, without him ever having been there even for a visit. Dreaming of something is one thing, but when it actually comes to fruition, worry plagues the fairytale in your mind and then gets replaced by nightmare scenarios. Mine was that Hubby would hate France and then hate me. So naturally, I wanted everything to be parfait when we arrived.

We decided to fly into Paris and then take a train a couple days later to our new home. We had two nights booked on Rue Cler in the 7ième arrondissement. For those not familiar with it because they haven't seen the PBS program that has made it famous, it is the stereotypical image we Americans have of Paris. A cobblestone street near the Eiffel Tower, lined with cafés, crêpe stands, flower and cheese shops, boulangerie, ....you get the idea. Top it off with a violinist on the corner playing classic French-film scores just for you, it all seems to be saying, "You're dreams have come true! You've made it to paradise!" It would seem.....

...Until we actually got to Rue Cler, by way of Métro, pulling our 3 spring loaded suitcases containing all our possessions in the world (well, on this continent), two gigantic backpacks, and a small child. Lugging and tugging, over the cobblestones. After having pulled all of that up and down several flights of steps and platforms the previous hour. Using public transport is cheaper than a taxi ride from Charles De Gaulle airport, but leaning on the side of "nightmare scenarios".

When we entered our hotel lobby, just a few long, bumpy blocks from the beginning of Rue Cler, we were exhausted, moody and stinky. Suddenly, I realized just what I had brewed up and convinced my poor little family to do! I started to cry uncontrollably. What if this didn't work out? We were stuck anyway! It was a burden I didn't want anymore.

At that moment, an American family came into the lobby, exuberant from their morning of touring, and tried to befriend us. They told Hubby how wonderful Paris was and they were sad to be leaving the next day. I hated them. They got to leave! I was here stuck for the next who-knows-how-long not knowing how we would survive this situation. And this was only Hour One!

After I scared them off with my sobbing, my husband consoled me and said it would all be great, he loved it so far. Ok, tears dried up, our room was now ready, time to shower, sleep and get emotionally stable again.

But when I got into the tiny room, went to use the tiny bathroom and then saw the flushing mechanism on the foreign-looking toilet (for those who don't know, the flushers in France are usually buttons or pulling devices on the lid of the tank), I started to get hysterical again thinking about having to flush like this for the next year. Ok, if you don't get the picture by now, I was completely irrational from sleep-deprivation, not making any sense, because back in The States I had raved to everyone about how cool French toilets were, because of their flushers!

After passing out and sleeping the rest of the afternoon, I awoke to Hubby saying he was going to go across the street to get some juice and snacks. He was eager to use his French independently. I was amazed but terrified he'd come back ticked off because someone was rude to him. I watched from the window above as he crossed the street and made a successful friendly purchase! He came back jazzed and ready to explore.

Late that night after soaking up the dazzling lights of le Tour Eiffel, we chose a brasserie near our hotel to eat le diner and suck down some vin français. Things were looking up. Of course wine will do that to you.

And then, the people at the table next to us seemed to be staring at us and with judgemental looks. I've been know to be paranoid about this, but I swear they were making a scene. It was a middle-age group of French men who were staring at us like we had just destroyed their evening. (Line from Shrek coming to mind: "It's rude enough being alive when no one wants you...") Anyhow, I was really uncomfortable and infuriated at the same time that they were gawking at us like we were barbarians. My anxiety peaked when I thought I heard the word "américains" in their conversation. Ok, now I had the proof! Turning to listen closer, I heard (in French), "Oh, look at me, I am American, I need my ketchup!" one said, and they all laughed hysterically in response. WHAT?! I didn't order ketchup. I hate ketchup. I kept listening, hearing stereotypical-American one-liners. It went on for several minutes. When they saw my expression, they laughed even harder. I wanted to leave, to check out of our hotel and hop the next flight back home. I HATE FRANCE, I screamed inside, French people are so rude!

Just then, I got my revenge. The waiter came over to me to take our order and I proceeded to speak my best French ever (thanks to the carafe of wine which gave me confidence to act French!) and placed our order. The waiter, astonished that he was receiving the order in his tongue, smiled very lovingly as if to say "You showed them!" I'll never forget the shocked, open-mouth expressions of the men at the table next to us when they heard their language roll off my tongue, understanding now they I had heard it all. Sweet victory!

It taught me a lesson as well. Don't be an Ugly American, even if someone is being an Ugly Frenchman.

Tomorrow I go on to Part Deux: The TGV Tragedy! Vomiting, tractors, accidents and more Frenchiness. Sure to appeal to all sorts.

PS. All photos on this post have been taken personally by moi, except the Rue Cler photo, because I did not have time to find mine today :)

Cassoulet Today

I figured one of my early postings should actually be about cassoulet, being that this blog references it, it'd be nice if people knew what it was and how to pronounce it.

Just say: kass-oo-lay. There! You've mastered it!

Now, take a look at the poster below which will give you an idea of what cassoulet looks like....

Were you imagining something small, dainty and chic? Non, dainty it is not! Baked and served in an earthenware dish are white haricot beans, sausage, duck or goose confit, slow baked to result in a rustic, stick-to-your-ribs meal that is so addicting, you'll never forget it...(unless you had the misfortune of ordering it in Paris). Add a glass of red wine (Cabardès and St.Emilion are my faves and so reasonably priced) and a loaf of crusty bread and you have the real deal. What real French people eat in South West France. Don't forget the cheese course, of course! (Couldn't resist!)





The beauty of France is that each region has its own specialties that cannot be replicated as well elsewhere, at least goes my experience with cassoulet consumption. It is apparently a heated controversy whether cassoulet comes from the village Castelnaudary or the city of Toulouse, and if that ever gets decided then it will be argued as to which one is best. I'll take 'em both, merci!





The very first time I went to France to visit my relatives, my husband couldn't go. Their "Welcome to France" meal was cassoulet. I had never heard of it before, but I was suddenly obsessed. So when I got back all my husband heard about was cassoulet. Ok, and a few million other things. But I had to convince him there was at least one dish he'd like in France. (He is not a quiche-kinda-guy, as he puts it.)





So when I finally got him to move to France four years later, the first thing he ordered in a bistro was cassoulet. But, it was a really hot day. I tried to tell him that this was really a meal best consumed during winter, or even spring or fall, but not in a hot-stuffy resto with no air circulation in the middle of summer. And not outside of my aunt's kitchen! No matter, he'd been hearing about this cassoulet far too long to ignore that is was on the menu. But after that first bite, he was hooked! Thankfully this little bistro served a good cassoulet. Many places do not as I found out later, hence busting the myth that all French food is perfect all the time.





You can be sure that very few places make their own cassoulet because it is such a long process. You can spend literally two days preparing it from scratch, or just go to the supermarché and buy it in cans. There are good ones and bad ones, we were told. We bought the first can we saw at the neighborhood EcoMarché during our first grocery-buying-trip-as-real-French-residents. I had been so excited to get it home and into the little earthenware single-serving bowls I found in the flat, get them into the oven and then in our bellies. But when I opened the can, it was like looking into a large can of beenie-weenies. Beurk! Ok, thought I, maybe this is what it looks like before it thickens in the oven. Surely there isn't bad tasting cassoulet here in the south of France! It is Cassoulet Country! After an hour in our tiny toaster-ish oven, it never did thicken. I realized I chose a bad one.



After many home-heated cassoulets my favorite brands, so far, are Spanghero and La Belle Chaurienne. I buy the Cassoulet de Canard (duck) and then an extra can of the confit de canard (duck confit) to add to it for extra duck-y goodness. Call me a quack, but it's how I was taught and no fighting over duck legs now. I bake it for awhile and then break the forming crust on top with a big spoon. It continues to bake and reform crust, which I break over and over with much patience knowing my efforts will all pay off.




And so that brings me to the name of the blog. Cassoulet Café. It makes sense to me. It is something I love, from a region I love, even if I would never order it in a café. I don't know, it just sounds cool. Even when it's hot...



Speaking of hot, did I ever tell ya that time that we got refused entry on a boat restaurant renowned for it's cassoulet, because we were *gasp* wearing shorts?

Bienvenue to Cassoulet Café

Hello there! Or should I say, Bonjour! Thank you for coming! If you love France or even despise it, or are just somewhere in between, grab a cup of coffee or a glass of wine and I promise you this is going to be a fun, entertaining blog about the real life in France. I won't talk incessantly about just one or two French things, but I will talk incessantly :)

I can say "been there, done that" because we lived the American dream of moving to France....and then back!

I was bitten by the French-Bug when I was little because a close family member moved there. Then I became obsessed when I started learning French in school. I went psychotic for France after I grew up and finally was able to go visit. I fell in love with it, came home and convinced my husband that we needed to move there...and we did.

I love to tell stories of our life there and the hilarious (and maddening) times we had. Reading blogs on American expats in France has really made me feel that I wasn't crazy after all.

So often people say to me, "I would love to go to France, but that'll never happen!" and I say to them, "But if you want it bad enough, you can make it happen! I'll help!" I love budget travel and I hate it when people get the wrong view of France because it's been built up by others as a pretentious place only for those with money.

Or the view that Paris is France. As much as I appreciate Paris for what it is, it is not my favorite place in France. OH THE HORROR! Did I really say that?! Mais oui...Some would have you believe that if you don't love Paris and its 5 euro coffees then something is wrong with you. I hate the view wealthy (or budget-travel challenged) American tourists give of Paris: brand name haute couture boutiques and even brand name foods that would blow any normal middle-class budget in just one morning. (And no, real French people do not spend 12-20 euros on le petit déjeuner).

Or how about this one: "The French are rude! They hate Americans!" Maybe some do, but not most. I've encountered both and I've broken language barriers that explained a lot. I'll tell you all about it if you stick with me.

For one to experience the real France, they have to get the Parisian (or parisienne) stereotype out of the mind and hop a TGV train to anywhere else. I am here to tell you the way it really is. After all, I have a wonderful love/hate relationship with this country. I know how real French people live because I've lived there, I visit, and I have close family and friends who live there. This blog will be a hodgepodge of funny anecdotes, stories of culture clashes, beautiful photos, food discussions and travel advice.

I don't pretend to know everything about this wonderfully irritating country and its culture, but I do know France isn't perfect....and yet it is.