French Bread, Lamb's Brain & French Women

The French bread in France is the best bread in the world, but you have to slather it with the French butter. Then you have to have a bowl of café au lait: half coffee, half hot milk.

I was 21 years old and it was my first trip to Europe. I accompanied my mom to Lourdes, France, where we would do volunteer work for the thousands of pilgrims seeking spiritual healing, if not physical healing (the foolishness of such pilgrimages is another story). What I remember most is the food. The cafeteria dinners for the workers were delicious. There were always slices of turkey, or veal, or beef, or chicken and everything had a gravy. Potatoes were boiled, baked and French fried. Vegetables were not overcooked, lots of fresh green beans. And fresh salads and hot soups.

I remember how good the sliced roasted turkey tasted. I was amazed at the delicious meats that accompanied meals. Veal, such a delicacy in the States, was served several times a week (I had worked in a restaurant as a teenager that substituted pork loin for veal. When breaded and covered with cheese and sause, no one was the wiser. The pork was much cheaper. I used to think of the poor unsuspecting Jews who were eating pork and felt bad for them).

But back to France: the bread. Ahh, the bread. With every meal, bread and butter.

Lourdes is the perfect place to experience a multitude of cultures because people from all over Europe come there to be healed.

The Spanish were the most jovial of people, always singing with guitar accompaniment.

The Italians were boisterous and fun, always ready to discuss food.

The English…well, the English breakfast was a feast, with a variety of meats, gravies, potatoes, lots of sausages and tea. The Germans enjoyed cold cuts and cheeses for breakfast.

The French women were the most beautiful, with the Spanish a close second. I loved talking to anyone who spoke French, male or female. It is one of my favorite languages to listen to, even today.

I remember while in Paris for a connecting flight, I ate in a restaurant that was at the top of a building. I ordered a salad that had lamb’s brain. Hey, when in France…! I wouldn’t get it again, but the rubbery, white brain matter resembled the boiled whites of eggs or squid.

I also ordered shrimp at a French restaurant they came out with their heads on. I had never seen that in the States.

In many ways, I felt the Europeans were so far more advanced than us. They seemed so much more willing to live life, to be in the middle of life despite the debris, to be a part of their environment, whereas we Americans like to sanitize everything.

In France, people eat on sidewalk tables where very narrow cobblestone streets are choked with diesel spewing vehicles and they don’t care. (Today, in the States, more almost all restaurants offer sidewalk tables, but this wasn't always the case.) Dogs in France accompany their owners into shops and cafes. Kids drink wine and beer. Everyone smokes. I liked the "realness" of France back then.

Things might have changed a bit since then, but I’ll always remember the food, the beautiful women, and the smell of diesel. For the longest time, the smell of diesel took my mind back to the narrow streets of France. I would follow diesel trucks for miles, huffing and dreaming.