Lost In Limoges

From the sheep-dotted pastures of France's underpopulated Southwest, Limoges rises in all its grey glory. The city's claim to fame: fine porcelain. The half-timbered houses of the Medieval center are surrounded by strip malls and McDo. Land-hungry Brits descend with flailing pocketbooks (thanks, RyanAir). The weather is remarkably cool year-round. Sure, I live on rue de Nice, but this is NOT the Cote d'Azur. Welcome to Limoges, "the middle of nowhere"-- or as Pierre says "everywhere"-- France.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

In Which I am Berated for Avoiding Paté

At an apero last weekend, as small plates of canapés and cheese puffs circled the table, glasses of Bordeaux clinked together, I distinctly heard, over the clamor, a chiding, painfully anti-American remark: "Why is she not trying the homemade paté? She must only eat McDo." Woe is me for taking French at the university! Now these comments can no longer roll over my ears as indecipherable phrases, the pleasant musical cadence of French. I can actually understand the critical comments and stereotype-stained judgments! I bristled-- forget any dietary concerns, (make-believe) allergies I may have to prevent me from indulging in French delicacies-- and I started to prepare my tirade (in French) about the glories of Alice Waters and California cuisine. But then Pierre leapt to my defense. I never thought I'd see the day. The Frenchman actually loves American restaurants and simply went off about them.


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