Book Excerpt
and French. After a while, another
customer arrived and took a table
directly across the aisle. I did a
double take when I noticed his
T-shirt, which was printed with
a picture of a horse and buggy.
Underneath was the slogan paradise
is for lovers — paradise,
pennsylvania. I asked him if he spoke
English. When he said yes, I asked,
“I’m curious: have you ever visited
that place on your T-shirt?”
“Oh, yes!” he replied. “My wife
has friends in Harrisburg. We were
there a year ago. We traveled
through Lancaster and stopped in
Paradise — do you know this place?”
“Yeah! That’s where I’m from —
I grew up there!”
As we talked, he became part of
our table’s conversation, and once
we’d all finished our meal, our new
acquaintance — Jean-Marie —
asked, “What are you guys
doing tonight?”
We had no plans, so he invited us
to his house for a drink. We walked
two or three blocks to his place and
continued our conversation over
glasses of red wine. When my
companions spoke French, I could
barely follow along, but after an
hour or so, Jean-Marie turned to me
and asked in English if I had plans
for the weekend. I explained that
I was just touring the country and
had no plans at all.
“Tomorrow evening, a friend and
I are driving down to the Jura
Valley, on the Swiss border, to meet
my wife and children. The family has
an old chalet in the hills there, and
I’d like to invite you to join us for
the weekend.”
Of course I agreed, and we
arranged to meet the next day.
On Saturday we drove down to the
village of St. Laurent, not far from
Lausanne, Switzerland, where I met
Jean-Marie’s wife, Catherine, who
was an English teacher, and her
parents, who were teachers, also.
Other friends joined us, and we
spent a joyous weekend in the
French countryside savoring great
food, drinking great wine, and
visiting with great company. Late
Sunday evening, the conversation
turned to me. Everyone wanted to
know what I was doing in France.
I explained that I was a chef by
trade, and had worked for a few
years in America. I had come to
France at the urging of my friend
in Paris, and was now checking out
opportunities to work in French
restaurants. They listened to my
story, and then resumed their
French conversation. After a few
minutes, they turned back to me and
Jean-Marie said, “Well, here’s what
we can offer you: we have an extra
bedroom back in Dijon, and you’re
welcome to stay there as long as
you’d like.”
He told me that in August the local
university would be offering special
classes to help foreigners learn to
speak French — and he volunteered
to use his connections at the
university to get me into the
upcoming program.
“The first thing we need to do is
to get you to learn French,” he said.
“We don’t want you to feel
obligated, but the offer’s there
if you want it.”
Knowing that fluency in French
would help me to find work, I
accepted, and just like that, this
backpacking tourist became a
language student at the University
of Dijon, with a place to live and
a whole new routine. For the next
month I’d go to school every day,
and on weekends Jean-Marie would
either take me back to see the
family at Jura Valley or to visit one
of the little villages just south
of Dijon.
Making a French
Connection
With a smile and a gesture, JeanMarie would say, “Let’s go find
something to eat,” and off we’d go,
driving into these little villages
where he grew up. Here were his
roots — and his old friends, who
were all very interested in meeting
his new American friend. That
meant I found myself invited to
nearly everyone’s home. I learned a
lot about local food and drink as we
went from house to house tasting
great dishes prepared by wonderful,
down-to-earth people. Until I went
to this region, I had never tasted
Merguez, the red spicy sausage
flavored with North African spices.
These were thin sausages (like
breakfast links in the States) that
were made locally using lamb or
mutton and typically served with
couscous. And everyone had his own
variation on how to make a salad;
it was pretty much a point of honor
to recognize the distinct
characteristics of each household
and how they prepared their salad
dressing. (The basic ingredients are
mustard, shallots, and vinaigrette.
To this day, I still use the basic
recipe of the region for my own
salad, and it’s included later in this
book.)
Jean-Marie’s friends enjoyed
showing me how they made their
favorite cocktails, especially the
kir, for which Dijon is famed, and
which is named after Félix Kir,
formerly a longtime mayor of Dijon.
This cocktail is made from a
measure of crème de cassis —
a specialty of the Burgundy region
— topped with aligoté (a regional
white wine). Kir was very popular
in France long before it showed up
in America, and it seemed everyone
had his own way of making the
cassis — the sweet blackcurrant
liqueur — and each one would insist,
“Here, try this,” “Taste that,”
“Eat some of this,” or “Drink a
little more.”
In September, when the family
returned from holiday, we started
a new routine. I had completed the
summer language classes, and my
friends encouraged me to stay on
to attend the university full time.
(I ended up studying French there for
two full semesters.) Full-time classes
wouldn’t start until October, but the
family went back to work and school
right away. Like a typical French
family, they all came home every day
at noon for a ninety-minute lunch
break. Since I had time on m