Fromage… Coq au vin… Crème brulee… Sándwích. The French are known for their complicated cuisine, riddled with enthusiastic spices, egregious garnishes, and fashion-forward wine pairings. Each specialty encoded with a backstory, a journey of sorts, a hidden message. Many people don’t know this, but if you eat a French meal backwards, you’ll get food all over your butt.
So needless to say, I was ready to dip my grubby Yankee paws into some bouillabaisse. The restaurant that was recommended to me was called, Chateau de Zisette, it was a quaint nook that felt very cozy, almost as if I had grown up there. This local eatery was run by an elderly couple who were sweet and kind, however, it was obvious that they didn’t have the stamina they once possessed.
Chateau de Zisette had its’ charming qualities, but to be honest I did not care for the general décor or the artwork that littered the walls. It was just a bit much and overall tacky.
But I was not to be deterred, besides, it’s not like I was gonna be grubbin’ on some Monet’s anyway. I had been looking forward to this meal all trip. Fellow travelers, I know y’all feel me, when you’re backpacking it’s about savin’ money. You eat bread and cheese for every meal so that you can save up for that fancy, savory, robust meal that you simply just can’t get in the plebeian village you call America. Judging by the menu, I’d say I was in the right place all right.
So I was ready to feast and gorge my butt full of crepes and the like. I ordered a bottle of white and started lickin’ my chops feelin’ too hot to trot.
“Reds be damned!” I cried as the waiter poured me yet another glass of Sav Blank. He was a nice gentleman, but you could tell he was an uncultured and generally worthless man, unfit to date anyone’s sister.
When the street-rat fled from my site, I was greeted by Chef Shaquille O’neal, “Now there’s a man of class and prestige!” I exclaimed. A towering boulder of a man, who seemed to be crafted by the Gods to marinate veal and tenderize bœuf. He lumbered his way over to my table, belly full of bread, his teeth stained tawny from the morning spice tasting, his burliness equaled only by his sense of fashion. He was str8 mean-muggin’.
“Oh yeah,” I whispered, “this motherf*cker’s all mine for the night.”
Once Shaq-daddy and I exchanged praises for one another, I began to interview him for the blog.
The following is a written transcription of our conversation:
Me: So what is it about food that you love?
Chef Shaq could not be reached for comment because he works all day and is it too much to ask to just come home, sit on the couch, and watch The Mentalist?!
Damn, that guy just gets it.
Based on the chef’s recommendation, I ordered the Coquilles Saint Jacques. Although I had never heard of it, I am a bit of a thrill-seeker. So I went spelunking head first into what I was told was a traditional French dish.
The food arrived not a moment too soon, the dish and I both sizzling, me with anticipation, the food with heat.
I put it in my mouth and I was all like,
Oh yeah… this is French food for sure.”
I finished my meal in what the wait staff described as, “shamelessly brisk”. Whatever, pretty sure I set a record, but for some reason they refused to put my picture on the wall.
Not to worry though folks, I got them back in true Koooosh fashion… by skippin’ out on the tab.
I even left those jerks something to remember me by.
Another daring night in the books and I’m still here to talk about it. France has been fun, but I gots ta get a move on y’allll. My only regret is that I didn’t get a chance to go to Paris’s main tourist attraction, Euro Disney. And for that, I shall never forgive myself.
NEXT STOP: SPAIN.