Let me remind you. It was Thanksgiving when I was approached to do this. It wasn’t until mid December that I decided to do it and start studying my Rosetta Stone. I’ve had no formal teaching when it comes to French except for a five-week stint at the Los Angeles Valley College back in 2002. So here I am, not even three months later walking once again back upstairs for a dinner that will be completely in a language not of my own. What was I thinking?
The previous dinner I showed up fifteen minutes late because my clock wasn’t set correctly. This time I showed up on time but the other guests showed up fifteen minutes late. I didn’t know there would be other folks but I did notice the time and now wondered if I was supposed to be late and that seven just happened to be a rounded sum. Oh well, time will only tell. I get to meet the distiller and his wife, sorry, their names elude me at the moment. He is the gentleman who makes the eau de vie for the father. They look very German and I will guarantee you she is total German and it makes sense because the mountains I look at off through the haze from my porch is Germany. I can only imagine what this area was like before 1945.
So far I haven’t heard an English word and I quickly realize that the newly arrived couple are in on the fact that I need to learn. The distiller does know some English and eventually just can’t help himself to practice it a little, which of course is always appreciated. I have come to realize rather quickly that everyone in this area speaks not only French but also German and their own language of Alsace, which is a mix between the two former. It’s like going to the Texas/Mexico border and hearing Spanglish. Luckily for me though I can quickly tell when they are speaking the other languages so I don’t blow my own mind by trying to understand. I literally have a shut off valve in my brain once a Germanic word is spoken and then it flips back on once I hear French.
After having a spicy red aperitif we head on into the dining room. The poor mother is so sick but she’s a hell of a trooper and presses on. When I thought it was just me I had tried to fathom how to say that we could do the dinner some other night and once I had it down the others showed and made my point moot. So we head inside the dining room and splayed out before me are three huge lobsters perfectly cut in half. I’ve never eaten lobster this way to be honest and I’m now actually more worried about eating it correctly than understanding just what in the heck they are saying. Luckily I do just fine and not fling any meat or shell at anyone else in the room. Whoo hoo I think to myself after I finish the lobster. It was fantastic and I didn’t look like an idiot.
We then followed that up with blackened bits of what I think are ribs and a thick rich black sauce, gnocchi, and a cabbage that is so deeply purpled it’s nearly black. I really can’t get enough of the cabbage as I have seconds, which pleases the father. I think he was worried that I wouldn’t be an eater but is quickly discovering that if there is food, wine, or booze…I will consume it. Then it happens, the desert. In reality back in America if the waiter didn’t offer desert I’d simply forget about it and rarely do I ever order it. It’s often too sweet or huge and most often just puts me over the edge stomach wise. My kind of desert is a nice scotch or a Manhattan but chocolate cake, seriously, what am I eight? Last time we had a tart and tonight we have baked pears. Doesn’t sound like much right? Sounds kind of boring or bland but I notice there is gravy boat filled with a cream looking sauce. I watch carefully as the German wife drowns her pear in the sauce so I do the same when it becomes my turn. OH…MY…GOD! Now this is a desert! The sauce has a subtle rich flavor of ice cream and as of right now, has to be my second favorite desert ever.
Several bottles of wine later and a sampling of chartreuse, eau de vie, calvados, and god only knows what else I finally make it back to my apartment at 12:30…in the morning! I worked like a mule for nine hours then had dinner for five and a half! Now that’s what I call living. As I think back on this I can only think of what my sister always says, “You don’t deserve all the nice things that happen to you,” and she’s probably right.
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