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Farci, farceur, and other truculence
I was going to write erotica tonight but now I'm too tired. After sitting around the house like an indeterminate lump all day, I realized that what I really wanted to do was dress up and go to a nice restaurant. So we did. It was expensive, but hey, eating well is our main luxury at this point in our lives.
The restaurant is called Truc, which Nonelvis tells me means "thingamajig" or "whatsit" in colloquial French. (She handles the French; I handle the German. Between us we can take apart a wine list in three-point-five seconds, unless it's an Italian restaurant, in which case we just order the second-cheapest Chianti.)
Truc cannot possibly seat more than forty people. It is the kind of place where the whole menu fits on an index card. They serve only a few things every night, but they do those things extremely well.
I had an appetizer of smoked trout with some sort of mustardy sauce, haricots verts (that's green beans, if you're utterly Frenchless) and cornichons (little slices of gherkin pickles). My entree was cassoulet, which is a stew of white beans with sausage and various kinds of game (duck and rabbit, in this case). I had creme brulée for dessert. Nonelvis had a celery-root soup, salmon with some sort of squash preparation, and the cheese plate. Nonelvis will travel miles for a good cheese plate.
Speaking of being utterly Frenchless ... A party of four was seated at the table behind us as we were finishing our entrees. (Bear in mind, as I proceed, that Truc's biggest fault is that the tables are too close together, so everyone can hear everyone else.)
They didn't look out of their depth (we were the ones wearing blue jeans, not them), but it was clear from their conversation that they were doing the "I'm intimidated by this food so I'll make fun of it" bit. I hate that game.
The waitress came over to their table and one of the men asked, "So, what is this 'chow farsee' anyway?" The waitress had her back to me; I hope she managed to keep a straight face. I myself was trying hard not to roll my eyes.
CHOU, moron. Say "shoe." Like the thing on your foot. Chou farci. Plural, choux farcis.
Okay, okay, I am honestly not trying to be a snob here. I had an Allegory of the Cave moment, that's all - information I expected someone else to know and was surprised when they didn't.
I mean, I don't speak French either, but 1) how can you possibly get "chow" (pronounced as in "puppy chow") from "chou," and 2) how can you possibly not know what "chou farci" means if you're coming to this very French bistro-style restaurant, and 3) didn't you bother to read the rest of the description where it spells out for people like you that it's stuffed cabbage anyway?
He said it as "chow" again a minute or two later, even though the waitress had said it correctly for him
I realize - given that I believe Americans are conservative eaters and it's one of my missions to get them more courageous about food - that I'm shooting my own foot off. That, by picking on this poor fellow, I'm contributing to the problem - but, doggone it, meet me halfway here so I have something to work with, little man!
Of course, I also realize that I am enough of a b**ch that I winced internally when I had to explain what "cassoulet" was - it's cassoulet, for pity's sake, like it needs a definition?
The problem - and this is generalized to all my Allegory of the Cave problems - is this: I don't believe I'm erudite. (I can never pronounce that word correctly, for one thing.) I feel that I have only a rudimentary smattering of information, and most of it's wasted on words like "rudimentary" and "smattering."
I figure I am greatly ignorant about things and have only managed to cling to a few odd facts here and there, and therefore I assume that if I know something, there's no excuse for everyone else not to know it as well.
Okay, okay, that's not strictly true. I recognize trivia when I see it. For example, I don't expect anyone but zealots to know that the word "zydeco" is actually a corruption of "les haricots" - and thus zydeco music is named after green beans.
But I do expect people to be able to pick their way through a French menu without footnotes. I expect people to know their beurre from their boeuf, their poivre from their poulet, their veau from their agneau, and their Burgundies from their Bordeaux.
And if that's unreasonable of me ... well ... the best defense I can offer is that I'm always willing to teach. And I promise to not make fun of you, the way I'm afraid I did the poor man in the restaurant.
After all, I'm serious about the mission. I was thinking during dinner about my favorite Seldom-Affordable Restaurant in a town full of them. It's called Biba. Biba is not for sissies. Biba has weird, daring, adventurous food. Biba is the only restaurant in town with a permanent section of the menu marked "Offal," where you will find things like liver, heart, sweetbreads, and other such oddments. Biba put duck confit on a pizza with watercress once. (It was good.) Biba knows how to prepare venison properly. Biba has surprised me every time I've been there - and I generally manage to get there once or twice a year.
And it occurred to me that, besides Nonelvis, and Mark-with-a-K (who I'd have to take sans Molly), there is not one person I can take to Biba with the knowledge that they will fully revel in the adventure, that they will get their money's worth.
Oh, I could take my mother there and she'd find something she liked well enough, but she wouldn't approach it with the "ooh, all of this weirdness is intriguing" outlook. Marc-with-a-C has been there; with him it's the same. Marc likes occasional madness but usually he'd just as well have a steak.
It seems a pity, that's all. On the other hand, with fewer adventurous eaters, it makes getting a table at Truc much simpler for those of us who are.
© Columbine
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