Fair weather is difficult to come by in Friville-Escarbotin during autumn. Since my arrival, there have been significantly more umbrella-toting days than there have been sunglass-sporting ones. So on a day like October 30, 2010, when the air was crisp, the sun was shining, and the only clouds that dotted the blue sky were white and fluffy, it was necessary to profit from mother nature’s kindness.
Around 11:00 in the morning I decided that I was going to take the bike out for another spin. I had recently purchased a helmet—a vital necessity for my biking abilities—so all worries about repeating the previous bike outing were quelled.
FLASHBACK TO PREVIOUS BIKE OUTING: While returning from a trip to the Intermarché (the larger and well-stocked supermarket) on my bike I had an unfortunate run-in with a parked car (yes, I am a moron). I had been thinking about how successful my trip had been considering the last time I had really been on a bike was when I was about 10 (well, I did go for a few bike rides with a friend along the canal path in Trenton but I could hardly claim my biking performance to be exquisite—especially after we had successfully navigated our way from Washington’s Crossing to Lambertville Station for two Bloody Marys which certainly made for an interesting return trip: Whoo! Don’t you feel like we are going so much faster?) .
So while I was contemplating my success and was reminiscing about tipsy bike rides, I had entered the center of town and was within two minutes of the apartment. As in many small towns in France, the streets are very narrow. With the addition of a few parallel-parked cars, it becomes hardly impossible to fit one car, let alone oncoming traffic and an idiot girl on a bike. While traversing the crowded street I noticed that there was a parked car in front of me, a moving car behind me, and opposing traffic. I glanced ahead. Back. Ahead. Back. Will the car behind let me go? He seems to be yielding to me, but will he pull up aside me just as I’m passing the parked car? Will I get sandwiched between the two? Will….SMACK!
I face planted onto the rear window of the car.
After scraping my face off the window I quickly looked around to see if anyone had seen the idiocy that had occurred. Yes. There was a man in a store to my right who was in hysterics. Rightfully so. I would have laughed at me too. While trying to avoid his gaze as he threw his head back, slapped his knee, and pointed at me in a fury of laughter, I realized that there were people in the parked car. I shamefully approached the driver’s side of the car and came face to face with a furious and shocked French woman. As she rolled down the window I rapidly over-apologized (one of my natural skills) and explained the situation. She got out of the car, worked her way to the back and checked out her bumper for any damage.
“Fais-tu ça?,” she asked as she pointed to a mark on the bottom of the bumper. “Non, je ne pense pas,” I honestly stated—there was no way my bike could have left the metal scratch mark on the underside of the bumper. I explained that the tire came up very high past that point on her car and I stood up my bike to show it’s incapacity to do any damage—I had full on hit the car with merely the tire and my face. The woman continued to observe her bumper and my bike until the laughing man approached us. With my luck the laughing man in the store—who was desperately trying to choke back his laughter—was the husband to the French woman and he explained that the mark on the bumper was there before I came in contact with their vehicle. With that, the woman and man both lit cigarettes. I apologized profusely until they got into their car and drove off. I decided to walk my bike back to the apartment—I had had enough riding for the day.
Armed with my new helmet I decided to ride from Friville-Escarbotin to Saint Valery; a total of 11.9 km. The ride to Saint Valery was wonderful, freeing, and picturesque. Several times during my trip I considered fishing my camera out of my bag in order to capture the beauty of the French countryside; 100% of those thoughts were shaken away by the remembrance of my previous biking extravaganza. I rode through several tiny French towns—each one making me appreciate my quaint Friville-Escarbotin all the more—and saw kilometers and kilometers of sprawling countryside and farmland. I passed fields filled with hay bales, fields filled with the remains of a plentiful harvest, fields filled with piles of manure (couldn’t say I really appreciated these so much), and fields filled with cows. The only time I released my white-knuckled grip on the handle bars was to wave to the cows and to say “Bonjour les vaches!”
After arriving in Saint Valery I locked my bike to a lamppost located in an RV park and walked into the center of the medieval town. I passed Le Vélocipiède—a wonderful Salon de thé that has become my creative safe-haven—and made the decision to return there in the evening for a cup of Thé Spéculoos, some relaxation, and some peaceful free-thinking. Feeling hungry from my 45-minute bike ride I decided to slip into a promising-looking bar for some French food. The menu that was displayed outside the bar was handwritten and very difficult to read. All of the letters were indecipherable: o’s looks like e’s and a’s looked like o’s. In my stupidity I figured they must have additional options and perhaps this handwritten menu was simply the “carte du jour.” All I want is a salad or a Croque Monsieur. So I decided to go in and consult the other culinary options. As I opened the door I was met by a wall of stares from the other patrons and was approached by the hostess. In restaurants and cafés I have a very difficult time understanding the “proper protocol”—sometimes the hosts want you to make it known how many people are in your party and that you are planning on eating there whereas others expect you to simply choose a seat and then hope that the server recognizes your arrival. This woman was obviously waiting for me to say something so I opened my American mouth and said in Franglais: “C’est seulement moi (It’s only me)” On second thought perhaps this was stupid to say. Recognizing the woman’s confusion, I said, “Une personne.” Becoming annoyed at my inability to properly maneuver the restaurant conversation, the hostess harshly asked, “Pour manger (to eat)?” I resignedly said “oui” and then took my place at a long table that joined with that of a French family who were staring in my direction; forks hovering by their lips.
When the hostess returned from the back room she handed me a menu and left me to look over the options for a few minutes. I opened the menu to find nothing other than the same unreadable menu from outside. Great! After trying to crack the code of these hieroglyphic menu options the hostess returned and said, “Je vous écoute” the traditional phrase of waitresses that means “I am ready to listen to you so you better be ready to order.” Crap! I couldn’t even read any of the options let alone pick one. In my best French I explained the fact that I was not able to read the menu. The woman politely rolled her eyes and looked at the line of illegible text that I was pointing at. “Pavé de saumon (salmon steak),” she said. As I am not a huge fan of seafood and preferred not to activate my gag reflex I decided against that option (in retrospect I would have been much better off). My finger scrolled down to my second inquiry. “Andouillette,” she managed to say through gritted teeth. Andouillette, andouillette. That definitely doesn’t sound like seafood. Perhaps it is some sort of poultry? “Une adouillette s’il vous plait,” I announced. The hostess repeated my request as she took note of it in her notepad. To this day, I swear I heard a collective gasp from the family seated to my left.
At first glance andouillette was beautiful; it was cylindrical in shape and was covered in a Dijon mustard sauce. Next to the log of je-ne- sais-pas were a pile of French Fries and a small salad. “Bon appetit,” the waitress smirked. I held my fork above the visually appealing but mysterious piece of meat and hesitatingly cut into it. The moment my fork went into the andouillette an offensive scent filled my nostrils—a combination of bologna, mustard, and something that indistinguishably smelled of feces. As the first piece fell to the plate I inspected each morsel. The inside of the andouillette was comprised of large chunks of various meat pieces—some of which looked like they could be the stomachs of small rodents. The outside of the andouillette fell away from its contents and maintained a circular shape—intestinal casing of some sort. With a shaking wrist I lifted a forkful of the andouillette to my mouth. Here goes nothing. The texture was remarkably chewy and the taste was reminiscent of hot dog mixed with my perception of what intestines would taste like. After choking down the first bite I thought, maybe this won’t be so bad, and planned out my next bite. I selected a few pieces of the mysterious insides, added a piece of lettuce, swirled the combination in the Dijon mustard and placed it in my mouth. That piece was harder to get down than the last. I quickly swallowed and tried to erase the taste with a swig of Stella Artois. As I cut into the next piece my eyes fell on a small morsel of intestine that fell onto the plate. It was covered in a few small piece of fur! Really? At that point I was ready to surrender to the meal but my former studies of French culture told me otherwise—it is extremely rude to leave the smallest morsel or even the garnish untouched. So, to avoid being identified as mal-élevée (poorly raised) I continued my task. The next piece was attached to a French fry, a piece of lettuce, a carrot and was followed with a round of baguette. Still horrible. Chugging my Stella I felt the anxiety begin to build. How am I going to finish this? Surely if I eat another piece I will visibly be choking it down. The fourth piece was the worst. At that point the scent was penetrating my nostrils and I was constantly reminded about what I was eating. I could not push the andouillette’s stench out of my nose and when I placed the morsel in my mouth, my gag reflex was activated. I held my napkin in front of my mouth and chocked the piece down. At that point I felt as if I was on Fear Factor—the horrible American TV show where ridiculous people volunteer to eat the intestines, eyes, tongue, and genitals of animals in the hopes of winning $1,000. I cut the remaining andouillette into three large pieces and planned how I was going to consume the rest. While planning, the hostess approached and asked, “Tu es fini (you are finished)?” Yes, yes, oh goodness yes! “Non,” I sighed and asked for a carafe of water to assist me in battle. She observed me with a quizzical look as if to say, You are actually going to finish that? and then walked to the kitchen. When she returned with the water I was able to get down one and a half more pieces before surrendering to the dish. I had eaten ¾ of the andouillette.
When I returned to my apartment, I booted up my laptop and proceeded to research andouillette—I still had no idea what I consumed. The results were nauseating. One website referred to andouillette as “Pork colon sausage” and stated that it is an acquired taste—you’re not kidding—and that “most people are turned off by the lingering scent of feces.” I read the rest of the article feeling like both a champion and an idiot. I could at least claim that I had tried the traditional French dish—a dish that even most French people would never eat (hence the collective gasp from the neighboring family). As a result of this moment, I have begun to appreciate the power of language all the more and I have become convinced that it is extremely important to learn all registers of vocabulary—especially culinary and menu options.
