French are hotheaded and
untrustworthy. But, as Roussel said, close neighbors are often a little hard on
each other, and he let me off with no more than a passing rap across the
knuckles for having ignored one of the great delicacies of France—the
frog—for most of my adult life.
I ate my thighs, I drank my
Chardonnay, and then I bowed my head to receive my medal. I had become an
official member of the Confrérie des Taste-Cuisses de Grenouilles de
Vittel, the first organization I had belonged to since the age of eleven, when
I left the Boy Scouts under a cloud after a personality clash with Leaping
Wolf.
And now, as if the various tipples of the morning hadn’t
been enough, the moment had arrived to have a drink with the mayor. This time,
no attempt was made to form up in an orderly line. The spectators, who
hadn’t been dosed with Chardonnay up onstage and were pawing the ground
for something wet to settle the dust of all those speeches, led the charge over
to the
mairie.
His Honor, supported by the Pastis 51 lobby in their
red coats, received us with open bottles and yet another speech, while
confrères
loosened their cloaks and flexed their medals. The
cheerful atmosphere provided no hint of the drama that was about to unfold on
the very steps of the
mairie
.
In fact, it was some time before
those of us who had drifted back to the Palais des Congrès, where lunch
was to be served, had any idea that a drama had actually taken place. But as we
found our seats and deliberated over the choice of aperitif, it became clear
that all was not well. Whispered conversations were taking place in corners,
with much glancing at watches. Waitresses had to be restrained from descending
on us with the first course. Looking around the room, I saw that every seat was
taken—except one. Loisant, thigh-taster in chief and our esteemed
president, was missing.
What could have happened to him on the
five-minute stroll from the
mairie?
Rumor and theory spread from table
to table with the speed of a brush fire, but nothing prepared us for his
eventual appearance. He came through the door looking like a man who’d
just lost an argument with a hammer, his forehead bruised and swollen, his
right eye puffy and half-closed, black stitches visible against discolored
skin.
The presidential sense of humor, however, was uninjured, and as
he took his place at the head of the table, he explained that he had been
wounded in the course of duty. Coming out of the
mairie,
he had been
ambushed by a snail—
un perfide escargo
t—
which was
lying in wait on one of the steps. He remembered hearing two crunches—one
as his foot crushed and then skidded on the snail’s shell, the other as
his head cracked against the stone. But after a trip to the hospital for repair
work, he claimed to be as good as new and hungry as a lion.
“I
have heard,” said the lady sitting on my left, “that although the
frog is not popular in your country, the English have a fondness for eating
toads.” She shuddered. “How could you possibly eat a
toad?”
This put a stop to all other conversation at our end of
the table. Heads turned toward me as I tried to describe the only toad recipe
I’d ever heard of—
crapaud dans le trou,
or toad in the
hole, a leaden dish that I had been made to eat once or twice in my youth. As I
remembered the recipe, a large ball of sausage meat is concealed inside a thick
coating of rubbery batter before being thoroughly overcooked. The result is not
unlike a booby-trapped Yorkshire pudding—heavy, stodgy, and highly
indigestible.
“Ah,” said the lady, “so it is not a
veritable toad.”
“No,” I said. A veritable toad would
probably have tasted better.
“Nor is it, strictly speaking, a
hole.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
She
shook her head at the peculiarities of traditional English cuisine and we went
back to studying the menu. In honor of the occasion, this offered not only the
list of dishes—including, of course,
untrustworthy. But, as Roussel said, close neighbors are often a little hard on
each other, and he let me off with no more than a passing rap across the
knuckles for having ignored one of the great delicacies of France—the
frog—for most of my adult life.
I ate my thighs, I drank my
Chardonnay, and then I bowed my head to receive my medal. I had become an
official member of the Confrérie des Taste-Cuisses de Grenouilles de
Vittel, the first organization I had belonged to since the age of eleven, when
I left the Boy Scouts under a cloud after a personality clash with Leaping
Wolf.
And now, as if the various tipples of the morning hadn’t
been enough, the moment had arrived to have a drink with the mayor. This time,
no attempt was made to form up in an orderly line. The spectators, who
hadn’t been dosed with Chardonnay up onstage and were pawing the ground
for something wet to settle the dust of all those speeches, led the charge over
to the
mairie.
His Honor, supported by the Pastis 51 lobby in their
red coats, received us with open bottles and yet another speech, while
confrères
loosened their cloaks and flexed their medals. The
cheerful atmosphere provided no hint of the drama that was about to unfold on
the very steps of the
mairie
.
In fact, it was some time before
those of us who had drifted back to the Palais des Congrès, where lunch
was to be served, had any idea that a drama had actually taken place. But as we
found our seats and deliberated over the choice of aperitif, it became clear
that all was not well. Whispered conversations were taking place in corners,
with much glancing at watches. Waitresses had to be restrained from descending
on us with the first course. Looking around the room, I saw that every seat was
taken—except one. Loisant, thigh-taster in chief and our esteemed
president, was missing.
What could have happened to him on the
five-minute stroll from the
mairie?
Rumor and theory spread from table
to table with the speed of a brush fire, but nothing prepared us for his
eventual appearance. He came through the door looking like a man who’d
just lost an argument with a hammer, his forehead bruised and swollen, his
right eye puffy and half-closed, black stitches visible against discolored
skin.
The presidential sense of humor, however, was uninjured, and as
he took his place at the head of the table, he explained that he had been
wounded in the course of duty. Coming out of the
mairie,
he had been
ambushed by a snail—
un perfide escargo
t—
which was
lying in wait on one of the steps. He remembered hearing two crunches—one
as his foot crushed and then skidded on the snail’s shell, the other as
his head cracked against the stone. But after a trip to the hospital for repair
work, he claimed to be as good as new and hungry as a lion.
“I
have heard,” said the lady sitting on my left, “that although the
frog is not popular in your country, the English have a fondness for eating
toads.” She shuddered. “How could you possibly eat a
toad?”
This put a stop to all other conversation at our end of
the table. Heads turned toward me as I tried to describe the only toad recipe
I’d ever heard of—
crapaud dans le trou,
or toad in the
hole, a leaden dish that I had been made to eat once or twice in my youth. As I
remembered the recipe, a large ball of sausage meat is concealed inside a thick
coating of rubbery batter before being thoroughly overcooked. The result is not
unlike a booby-trapped Yorkshire pudding—heavy, stodgy, and highly
indigestible.
“Ah,” said the lady, “so it is not a
veritable toad.”
“No,” I said. A veritable toad would
probably have tasted better.
“Nor is it, strictly speaking, a
hole.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
She
shook her head at the peculiarities of traditional English cuisine and we went
back to studying the menu. In honor of the occasion, this offered not only the
list of dishes—including, of course,
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