Commentary: Mystery meat and the French dining experience

  • Published
  • By Staff Sgt. Christopher L. Ingersoll
  • 100th Air Refueling Wing Public Affairs
RAF MILDENHALL, England --  Servicemembers stationed in England have more than their fair share of opportunities when it comes to traveling.

But, when it comes to visiting any of the amazing European countries which are all a stone's throw away, a little planning can go a long way toward avoiding regrettable experiences and meals.

Take it from me, I know.

After a weekend in Paris, my wife and I were driving back to catch the ferry to England. We decided to take a little detour and got off the French equivalent of a freeway to try and find a mom-and-pop-style lunch. I soon found what I thought I was looking for - a quaint-looking place with pictures of horses everywhere.

"Cool," I thought. "Horses must mean old fashioned." But what it actually meant was that I was at some sort of country club filled with people who fly their jets to the country and ride horses with their bosses.

That was confirmed when a snooty man in his late 30s parked his BMW in the parking lot and walked in, complete with trophy wife, and received the royal treatment from the wait staff.

Suddenly I felt very out of place in my "Super-dad" T-shirt, crusty old tennis shoes and ugly plaid shorts that I wear because they were a gift.

Now, let me make it clear that I wouldn't recommend going to any country without having a basic understanding of the language, but as the trip was a little last-minute I didn't know but a few phrases - none of which helped me in this situation.

So, we were seated without much trouble, and I began to peruse the 10-page menu filled with stuff I couldn't read. I found the section with the cheapest entrees and began browsing by price.

I was mortified.

Suddenly I remembered that French cuisine includes things like snails and frog legs, and I was beginning to wonder if I wouldn't end up with something of that nature on my plate. Mustering up my courage, I tried to find words that looked like steak and onion rings, and confidently, I pointed to that item on the menu with a wry smile. My wife played what she thought was a safe bet and ordered the chef salad.

Ordering water was an adventure in itself. I think I said "water" in every language but French, and finally the woman said, "Water?" with a French accent and her nose turned up to us, no doubt thinking, "Why didn't you just say you wanted water?"

When they brought my wife's salad out, it was smothered with a huge mound of ham and bacon - which would have been fine except my family doesn't eat pork. So much for her safe bet.

My meal, while not as immediately revolting, filled me with dread. I looked down at my plate of what looked like three pieces of thinly sliced toast with all of the white part cut out and filled with Spam. Rounding out this fabulous meal were two little pickles and a tiny dollop of some pickled red stuff.

Being raised in working-class families, it goes against my wife's and my nature to waste food so we steeled our resolve and chewed it down one revolting bite at a time. Tasting my entrée, I became even more confused as to what it was. Actually, I'm not even sure it was meat. It had a spongy texture like processed meat but it tasted more like a chunk of wood pulled of a dry-rotted tree.

As the meal drew to a close I flagged down the waiter and was trying to say I wanted to pay but the words weren't in my French dictionary. I stumbled through some hand gestures with my wallet which apparently irritated the snooty guy and his trophy wife. That of course made me want to be more obnoxious but restraint got the better of me, and we finally left that chapter of our lives behind us.

Now that I know that French food is only good if you can speak French, I will certainly make a stop by the base library to check out some of the foreign language materials, including audio books, or perhaps stop by the Information, Tickets and Travel office before embarking on another romantic getaway.