Food Narrative

My eyes scan the menu of the small Paris café and slowly widen in horror as I quickly come to the realization that this menu is in French. It's not that I'm surprised. I mean, I am in France after all. But most writing meant for the public in Paris is translated to about ten different languages, English being one of them. To be fair, I have mostly only been in the tourist-filled parts of Paris. But now I'm not. Which was okay, I think. Great, really. What's the point of being in a foreign place if you only stick to what's familiar? So, I continue to scan the menu, while still (admittedly) looking for something that sounds even vaguely familiar.

Pate de Canard?

Potage Créme de Cresson?

Cassoulet?

Coq au Vin?

Brie ou Créme Anglaise?

What is this stuff? I consider just going to the McDonald's down the street. I know, I know. Not very adventurous and pretty contradictory to my plan to not stick to what's familiar. But I don't know what any of this stuff is! What if I order snails or something? I'm not ready for that. Hm... I could eat two or three crépes for lunch instead. I look longingly at the stand across the street. But then I hear my mom's voice in my head telling me that crépes "are not a balanced meal" and that I should definitely get something from the restaurant I'm already at.

"Jessica? You gonna order?" I look up at my friends who I had forgotten were here while I was having an inner-crisis. I know it's rude, but if I order something I don't like, or doesn't look like anything I recognize,  I won't eat it.

"Uhh, yeah," I answer dumbly. I glance up at the waitress who is making no effort to hide her glare. I smile nervously and look back down at my menu. Salads! Salads are safe, right? I scan the list of salads and pick one I hope is safe.

Salade de Canard.

Well, there's no way I'm gonna try to say that one and offend the waitress even more. I mean, she's probably already planning on spitting in my food at this point. I point at my selection on the menu and hold it up to her. She scowls but nods and writes on her notepad.

***

When the food arrives, I realize the salad I ordered may not be as safe as I had hoped.

This isn't the salad I ordered. I didn't get a picture of it, but I remember it looked something like this.

I poke at the mysterious meat with my fork. It doesn't look bad or poorly prepared but... still. What is it?

"Looks like duck. Mind if I try?" one of my friends says.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"You asked what it was." Did I say that out loud? "I think it's duck. Can I try it?" My friend explains slowly.

"Oh, um, go for it," I nod.

My friend takes a bite and nods, confirming that it's definitely duck. Well, I've never had duck. No better time to try, I suppose. I cut off a tiny piece and slowly bring it to my mouth and start chewing. It's not bad. It tastes like chicken, but stronger and gamier. And greasier. And more expensive. Or maybe that's just because it's Paris.

With that, I decide to stick to McDonald's and crépes for the rest of my stay in Paris.