Rasmenia

Not long after I moved to France, I had French friends & relatives telling me about Mont Saint Michel.

“Have you been?”

“Um… no, not yet,” I’d say.

“Oh, it is so beautiful – you really must go.”

After I had been in France for about a year, Olivier & I returned from a trip to Normandy.

“So, did you visit Mont Saint Michel?”

“Er, uh… well, no… not yet.”

“Next time!  Next time, you must go.”

People kept talking about it.  Everyone that had been there agreed on one thing: this place was fucking awesome & had to be seen.  I started to feel like such lame-ass for not having seen it yet.

Eventually, upon making another visit to Normandy, I got the chance.

Proof that I've seen it. Stop asking.

Now, on the wee tiny island of Mont Saint Michel, as you can see behind these two stunning tourists, is a tiny, uh… mountain.  (Sorry, I’m from Colorado.  My people tend to be snobs when it comes to what constitutes an actual mountain.)  At the top of the mountain is a monastery where the tourists can run amok, which is of course, what we did.

Like most places that are teeming with tourists, the lower level of Mont Saint Michel is loaded with restaurants, gift shops, bars, cafés & museums.  If you want to get to any of the cool historical shit, you must first be herded through the area where all of the money is being spent.

Many a bovine have fallen victim to the "cash gauntlet".

After we made our way through the crowd of outstretched hands exchanging money & merchandise, we had something very important to take care of: audio guides.

You’ve seen these – the little phone thingys that you listen to while you stroll along, enjoying a guided tour at your own pace.  Most importantly, they make you look really, really smart.

Really.

Audio guides & brochures in hand, we were free to roam about the monastery.

Now, a quick bit of history of the monastery.  If you haven’t already figured it out, the name Mont Saint Michel translates to “Mount Saint Michael” in English.  I’m sure you’ve heard of Saint Michael, sometimes referred to as the Archangel Michael.

I am no Christian or religious person of any kind.  However, I do seriously dig theology & mythology.  I can tell you, there is no greater badass in Christianity than Michael.

Just look at that angelic weaponry.

So, anyway… history.  The story is that Michael showed up on the Mount in 708 A.D. & instructed St. Aubert, bishop of Avranches to build a church.  Aubert refused & despite Michael’s hounding, he insisted on being a stubborn shit.  So Michael finally burned a hole through his skull with his finger.

His fucking finger.

As you can imagine, that did the trick & Aubert didn’t need to be told again once all of the obstinance had leaked out through the hole in his head.  Later, the mount was used for strategic purposes in 933 A.D. by William I, Duke of Normandy.  The island endured several assaults during the Hundred Years War, but had such killer fortifications that it withstood them all.

As time went on, the abbey eventually closed & was converted into a prison, which closed in 1863… because why have a prison when you could have a nice little historical monument instead?

With my audio guide pressed firmly to the side of my head, we ambled along, through the various corridors & chambers of the abbey until we emerged outdoors, finding ourselves in the cloister.

We continued on, alternating between being in enormous rooms made of stone & being out in the rain.  As to be expected, at the end of the trip, we found ourselves in yet another gift shop crawling with slow-moving cattle.

Naturally, we panicked & decided to flee.

We made our way back down, past the little cemetery & the tiny village.  Soon enough, we found ourselves back among the throng of slow-moving tourists.  We ducked into one of the many bars along the way for a quick espresso before venturing back out into the rain.

Just before we left, we passed by the famous Mére Poulard restaurant, where the chefs were busy, rocking out with their eggs.

Like every other place in France, there is a specialty.  In the tiny medieval city of Mont Saint Michel, it’s omelettes.  I could sit here trying to explain to you how cool it is, the way that the omelette chefs beat the eggs in big copper bowls in such a way that it’s a bit musical, or I could just show you:

Honestly, anything that I tell you about Mont Saint Michel won’t do it justice – you really must go.  Besides, you probably won’t encounter a pissed-off, muscle bound archangel ready to burn a hole through your skull.

Probably.

“There is no love sincerer than the love of food.”  -George Bernard Shaw

*

In the winter of 2004, I had the brilliant idea to take a trip to France.  I thought to myself, “Sure… this’ll be great.  I’ll go out there all alone.  I’ve been talking to that French guy on the Internet for the past few months… yeah, this is a good idea.”

Ok… so it was a little wacky.  But, my gut said that it was a good idea, even though my head was making fun of me constantly, using words like “careless” & “daft”.

But, hell… since when do cautious & rational have all of the fun?

It was November.  The plan was set for me to spend 2 weeks in France during April of 2005.

Fast forward to April in Paris.

Skip ahead to me & him, in his apartment in Montmartre.

That apartment... well, it's in here somewhere.

“I rented a car,” he said.  “I thought that next week, we’d take a road trip.  We can stop at different castles & villages, making our way down south to the Mediterranean coast.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

Jump ahead to the first day of the road trip.  We drive for a couple of hours before stopping for the night in Orléans.  We check into our hotel, then wander around the city until dark.  Eventually, we found ourselves needing food.  We walked up to the nearest restaurant so that we could take a gander at the menu posted next to the door.

It was a Lebanese restaurant.  In Loveland, Colorado, there aren’t many of these.  In fact, there aren’t many Lebanese restaurants in the entire state of Colorado – last time I checked, there were only 3 of them.  Needless to say, this was the first one that I had ever seen.  Everything on the menu was completely foreign to me.

“What do you think?”  Olivier, who is part Lebanese, was grinning at me.  “You feel like giving it a try?”

I looked again at the wacky menu, with all of it’s strange new words: Kibbeh, Labneh & Shanklish.  Wara’ Enab, Tabbouleh & Shish Taouk.

“Hell yes I want to give it a try,” I said.

Over the next couple of hours, we had a bottle of Lebanese wine, mezze & cigarettes.  It was some of the best food that I’d ever tasted.

Food that does not require utensils to eat it = pure joy.

After we’d consumed everything, we went back to our hotel & back to our road trip.

Skip over the long goodbyes at the airport when I flew back home to Colorado.

Fast forward to me, on a plane, moving to France, to his tiny apartment in Montmartre.

Jump ahead to a wedding – our wedding in March of 2006.  We decided to have it catered by a local Lebanese restaurant.  It seemed like the obvious choice.

This stuff is quite addictive.

Fast forward to our first anniversary.  It had to be something special.  I hadn’t yet been to Normandy, so we decided to spend the weekend stuffing ourselves with crêpes while wandering about the WWII stuff.

Skip ahead to anniversary number two.  We were still living in that tiny apartment in Montmartre & decided to have dinner at a Greek restaurant in Paris called Mavrommatis.  Olivier was sick & blasting fistfuls of snot all night.  Still… memorable.

Jump ahead to year three: we found a nice little French restaurant in downtown Sucy-en-Brie, where we now reside.

Here we are… year four.  While snot blasting is always sure to be a good time, we didn’t see the point in repeating those shenanigans, or embarking on another historical tour of Normandy.

We could have just gone out to dinner.  Again.

“We should go on a little trip,” Olivier said.  “Maybe a weekend, or just overnight.”

“Ok,” I said.  “What did you have in mind?”

“Lebanese food in Orléans.”

Now with a car of our own instead of a rental, we were off to Orléans.

We had booked a room in the same hotel; the first hotel we had ever stayed at together.

We returned to the same restaurant; the scene of the first mezze that we had shared with one another.  But, more importantly, it was the first Lebanese restaurant that I had ever been to.

It was where I fell in love.  With Lebanese cuisine.

Over the next couple of hours, we had our mezze & a bottle of wine.  No cigarettes this time.  A few things had changed – for the better.

Of course, after apéritif & a bottle of wine, there was the expected jackassery.

Pro Tip: Jackassery performed in the bathroom makes for easy clean up.

In the morning, room service brought our breakfast, complete with stinky cheese.

While we sat on the hotel bed, watching old episodes of MacGyver dubbed in French & eating our typical French breakfast, I kept thinking of the dinner we had eaten the night before.  Just as every time we stuff ourselves with Lebanese cuisine, there is anticipation before… & the inability to get it out of the head afterward.

It’s a lot like being in love.

When I first moved to France a little over 4 years ago, I was immediately enamored with the food.  I’m sure that’s hardly a surprise.  I mean, this is the country that invented haute cuisine, chefs, bistros & the words “restaurant” & “gourmet”.

French dishes from various regions are known far & wide outside of France’s borders: foie gras, escargot, cassoulet, bouillabaisse, crepes & croque monsieur.

Everyone knows about Brie & Bleu Cheese.  Grocery stores in the U.S. sell Herbes de Provence.  Any idiot knows what a croissant is.

Well... maybe not ANY idiot.

The point is, these people are not fucking around when it comes to the food.  It’s an art; it’s one of life’s greatest pleasures & should be enjoyed.  It isn’t just a means of survival or fuel – it’s a way of life.

However, while America eats itself to death, it’s only natural for the fat of that land to spread.  Little bits of American culture can be seen everywhere & France is no exception.  I’m not talking about the Hollywood influence & the fact that I can’t seem to escape George Clooney’s face no matter where I go in France.  No, the American influence seeps into every little nook & cranny here.

Even the food.

Obviously, the haute cuisine & frog legs remain.  But now, there is a Subway.  There’s Domino’s, McDonald’s, KFC, Oreo’s & Pringles.  While some French people do not consider sandwiches to be food (don’t ask me why) there are more & more people out there stuffing their faces with burgers & subs.

Granted… you might see them eating it with a knife & fork.  The concept is still new for many of them.  Try not to laugh if you see this… no matter how much it reminds you of Mr. Pitt from Seinfeld eating a candy bar with a knife & fork.

"I once saw a French man eating a cheeseburger this way."

Of course, French people are slowly getting fatter.  Not to the extent of the U.S., but it’s still happening.  While French people have not generally been big into snacking, it’s catching on.  The snack aisles in the grocery stores here are very small compared to those found in the states.  You won’t find “family size” bags of chips, or countless varieties of snack food.  It’s a little less obnoxious.

Sometimes, the packaging is the same as in the U.S. – a Pringle’s can looks the same, only with French writing.  Other times, the brands are exclusively European, but it’s still just a boring package.  A bag of pretzels is just a bag of pretzels.

What is the most amusing is when you stumble upon one of these French brands & they’ve attempted to “Americanize” it a bit.

Every now & then, as I wander the aisles, I come across something that is hilarious, but not at all something I would be interested in eating…

Don’t ask me to explain why “rock” is spelled “roc”, or why “monkey” is spelled “monky”.  It doesn’t matter – it only adds to the ridiculosity of it all.

If the Monky Boy snacky crackers get lodged in your gullet, you can always wash them down with some evil green juice:

Of course, the most baffling & hilarious snacking treat that we’ve found so far is this:

There's nothing like a big bowl of Jumblies to start the day right.

Yes… Jumblies.  Also referred to as a guy’s “junk”.  His twig & berries.  His plums.  Sausage & eggs.  The things that hurt when you kick them.  His jumblies.

Ok… so, not all of the food in France is haute cuisine, or a world-famous regional dish, but there’s more than one way to enjoy food – even if that means standing around in the grocery store with a camera, pointing & laughing.

“Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai ce que tu es.” (Tell me what you eat and I’ll tell you what you are.) -Anthelme Brillat-Savarin