Firoozeh Dumas Read online

  I have also had many memorable local meals while traveling. I have added egg salad sandwiches in New York, Maryland crab, Smith Island cake, pork tenderloin sandwiches in Iowa, and lobster rolls from Gloucester (lobstah from Gloustah) to my roster of favorites. The list keeps growing, and that’s a very good thing.

  When I married a Frenchman, my palate widened even further. Thanks to François, I tried stuffed quail and pâté, regional wines and endless stinky but delicious cheeses. I loved French food and found myself becoming more and more adventurous every time we visited his country. But like the sky-diver who eventually lands on his head and decides that maybe it’s time to redirect his bravery, I, too, found myself redirected, toward the vegetarian menu.

  It all started years ago when my husband and I discovered a charming little restaurant in an alley in the seventh arrondissement in Paris. This tiny restaurant, with its red gingham curtains and only nine tables, opened every day at noon to a line of hungry Parisians waiting outside calmly and quietly. Complete strangers were forced to eat at the same table, and people were often asked to change tables in the middle of a meal if the lack of seating necessitated such choreography. Nobody ever complained. The food was so good that a little bit of abuse seemed a small price to pay for a perfect coq au vin. What was most surprising were the prices. This place was actually cheap. A three-course meal, complete with a glass of wine, was about ten dollars. (The prices have since changed.)

  During one of our excursions, our son ordered a salmon dish, which he did not like. This was a first for us, but then again, our son was four. When we tried to order dessert, the waitress, who was the chef’s wife, told us that there would be no dessert until the salmon was finished. “Ca ennuyera le chef. That will bother the chef,” she told us. In America, this bold gesture would have seemed pushy and inappropriate, but bathed in French light, it seemed charming, a bit like the sign in our elevator that read, “Ne pas cracher.” Do not spit.

  We go to France only about once every five years, so when we found ourselves in France again last Christmas, we were thrilled. Our children were ten and thirteen, young enough to still want to hang out with their parents but old enough to have strong bladders. With the dearth of public bathrooms abroad, the latter is appreciated only if one has traveled with a toddler.

  Having an Iranian mother and a French father, my children have been taught that trying new foods is a necessary and exciting part of life. They have to have only one bite but are never, ever, under any circumstances, allowed to make a face or say “oooh” or “yuck.” If they don’t like something, “no, thank you” are the operative words.

  During our last excursion to Paris, we took the children to our usual little bistro. The specialty that day was andouillette, a type of sausage. None of us, the Frenchman included, were clear on what exactly went in andouillette, but then again, as the saying goes, the exact ingredients of any sausage are known only to the sausage maker and God. Plus, we didn’t care what was in it; we were in France and that meant that we could not go wrong. My husband and daughter ordered it; my son and I ordered different dishes so we could all share.

  As we waited anxiously for our food, my husband and I enjoyed a glass of Côte du Ventoux, a red wine from the south of France. Our children were busy with the baguette and butter, a simple but sublime combination the French have perfected. Our appetizers arrived: leeks vinaigrette (the white part of the leek, boiled, cooled, then served with a creamy vinaigrette).

  All of sudden, my son started looking around the restaurant. Something smelled funny.

  Our main course was arriving.

  The andouillette looked like fat, pale sausage. My husband and daughter each took a bite and said nothing. I noticed that the portion size was rather large, so I told my ten-year-old daughter, “Leave half of it. It’s too much.” Normally, the suggestion of eating only half a dish is a cause for protest from my daughter. This time, she agreed without any argument. That should have been a clue.

  I asked my daughter if I could taste the sausage. “Sure,” she said, giving me a generous serving. Her generosity should have been my second clue.

  I took a bite. I couldn’t taste anything. My palate was overwhelmed with something I could not identify.

  This is the point where good judgment flew out the window. Rather than give my palate time to reach within its Rolodex of previous taste experiences, I decided to speed the process by taking another bite. With the second bite in my mouth, I still could not identify the flavors, except that I felt that I was eating something not meant to be eaten.

  My thirteen-year-old had also taken a bite of andouillette and was now gulping down several glasses of water. “That’s the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted,” he declared. Normally, I would say something like “It’s enough to say you don’t like it,” except that his words were utterly true. My daughter added, “I can’t finish this.” My husband was turning vert.

  It wasn’t just the flavor but the fact that it lingered regardless of the amount of fluid we consumed. Even though none of us had eaten more than a few bites, it felt like a brick had found its way into our gut. If only life came with Rewind and Delete buttons.

  “What is in this?” I asked the French husband. He didn’t know. We asked the waitress, who proceeded to give us a long list of ingredients, but all I heard was “pig intestines.”

  The waitress was not happy when we told her that we could not eat any more, but there was no option here. Short of Moses appearing and commanding us to finish the andouillette, we wouldn’t.

  We paid the bill, which was more than a hundred dollars, thus adding another level of horror to our experience. As we staggered to the nearby Metro station, all we could talk about was the taste-and-smell combination that had left a permanent imprint on our brains. We desperately devoured the Altoids I had brought from the United States, but Altoids were no match for the potency of the andouillette. It was as if the flavor had penetrated our teeth’s dentin. We spent the rest of the afternoon brushing, flossing, and rinsing, then repeating.

  That night, we went to dinner at my in-laws. When we explained why we all felt sick and wouldn’t be able to eat, my mother-in-law asked if the andouillette had smelled bad, sort of like a toilet. “Yes,” we said. “Then the intestines had not been cleaned well,” she casually explained.

  We didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse after that meal, but now we did. I decided I needed more information. Maybe my mother-in-law was wrong. Maybe the latrine smell was a result of a mélange of secret French spices.

  The next day, I went to the local butcher and asked him how one prepares andouillette.

  “Il faut d’abord bien nettoyer le debris,” he said. “You must first thoroughly remove the particles.”

  On my way home, I swore off all sausage forever. I regretted asking the butcher for more information. I regretted having learned French so that I could ask the butcher for more information. From now on, I told myself, I will stick to foods I know. In fact, I will stick to foods that grow on trees. And when I want adventure, I will go to a Barry Manilow concert.

  And that is when I saw a small mound of perfectly ripe mangos in the window of an exclusive epicerie. Here was an example of a perfect food. I looked at the price and knew that if my father ever found out how much I was contemplating on spending on a single mango, his frugal immigrant’s sensibility would be horrified. But then again, if he knew what was in the lunch I had eaten, he would be even more horrified.

  I bought the mango and did what no self-respecting French person would ever do. I sat on a nearby bench, took out my Swiss army knife, and ate it right then and there. With every bite, its ripe, succulent flesh erased the memory of my gastronomical misadventure. My senses were mesmerized by its natural sweetness. The best part was that my mango contained no pork parts, frosting, or marshmallows. All I could taste was its perfection, courtesy of nature. I threw the pit in the nearby wastebasket and wiped the juice from my chin.
r />   And then the taste of the andouillette came back to me.

  Mr. Potato

  I have always been destined to be rich. This I know for sure because put me in any store, be it a tile, shoe, or pet shop, and I will gravitate toward the most expensive item. I do this effortlessly, like someone possessing an inner dowsing stick or divining rod.

  The problem is that the universe has not yet caught up with my destiny, but that’s part of the plan, too. It’s better to achieve success later and have it be real than to become famous and have it taken away. Just ask the former planet Pluto. But I have always known that someday something would happen and I would be suddenly rich, and not like one of those people who saves a hundred dollars every month and eventually becomes rich. My good fortune would be more akin to the guy who invented Post-its. One good idea and you never again have to ask, “How much is that puppy in the window?”

  While I await that day, I enjoy the many fine things in life that are free, my favorite being going to the farmers market. It’s like a religious experience, and I am forever preaching its value. I regularly buy gifts for friends there, such as a spectacular bunch of radishes or a stick of brussells sprouts that looks like a medieval weapon. One time I bought a huge striped cucumber shaped like an S. The recipient of this gift, a five-year-old, was thrilled. On rainy days, I thank all the farmers for coming and buy twice as much.

  One day I was at the market as usual, looking through the organic fingerling potatoes, and suddenly there it was, a perfect cross-shaped potato. I mean perfect. I showed it to the woman next to me, who looked impressed and then asked me if I knew where to find lemon basil. This is probably what happened to the guy who invented the Hula hoop. He showed it to his wife, who reminded him not to forget to put out the trash. But I knew what I had.

  I came home and showed the potato to the French husband, who thought it was “cute.” But my thirteen-year-old got it right away. “EBay!” he yelled. We all know the story of the guy who sold a piece of toast on eBay that supposedly had an image of the Virgin Mary on it. This would be the sequel.

  Problem was, I did not want to insult anyone. How do I list something like this for sale without ruffling feathers? The description was key.

  We settled on the most accurate yet innocuous description, but one with enough catch words to get the right audience: “For sale: organic potato shaped exactly like a cross. Some might call it holy, some might call it biblical. We call it amazing. A conversation piece, at least.”

  We photographed the potato in flattering natural light and took its measurements. We had to decide on a price, which is not easy considering we were hoping to get at least sixty thousand dollars. Everyone knows that a high starting bid on eBay is the kiss of death, so we settled on five dollars. We just hoped our golden goose would not rot before it sold. A quick glance through a book on root vegetables and we discovered that the potato could last for years if kept in a cool, dry place. We placed the pampered potato in the refrigerator on the highest shelf, between the box of Arm and Hammer Baking Soda and the jar of Patak’s Original Extra Hot Curry Paste.

  To post our item, we had many options, boldface or plain script, one photo or several, with border or without. Our choices ended up costing us $3.85, which would leave us a net profit of $59,996.15.

  We also had to decide on the categories for eBay where our item would be listed, so we went with “Religion” and “Totally Bizarre.” I should have looked at the latter before committing to it since I soon discovered that it contains mainly naked pictures of ex-girlfriends. If we could only redirect man’s relentless pursuit of naked pictures into an alternative fuel, we would solve so many problems at once.

  After we paid the fee, we looked up our item and were shocked to discover that we actually had competition, a potato chip with a cross in it. The seller of that fried root had written, “Leisurely eating a 23/4-oz. bag of chips when one is discovered with a ‘perfect’ cross in the center of the chip! Empty bag that it came from is included free.” The description was accompanied by a photo, albeit a somewhat fuzzy one. There was already one bid, for ninety-nine cents.

  My ten-year-old pointed out the obvious flaw. “How do you send a potato chip without breaking it?” she asked.

  Our potato had more potential.

  We had paid extra for our item to be listed for ten days, instead of the usual seven. We figured more days meant more publicity, which meant higher bids.

  Sadly, no one, not one person, bid on our cross-shaped potato. We felt cheated. After pondering why some people make money selling useless things, while others cannot even sell a cross-shaped potato, it dawned on me that this was a blessing in disguise. If we had sold our potato for sixty grand, my children would never have agreed to do their homework again. Why should they trudge through trigonometry when they can make a living fishing for idiots? Why would anyone in his right mind buy a cross-shaped potato? Our failure to find a person stupid enough restored my faith in mankind. Nonetheless, I kept the potato just in case I ever came across an ad reading, “Looking for cross-shaped potato. Will pay big bucks.”

  But this story has a sad ending. One day, while on a cleaning frenzy, the Frenchman threw out the potato, claiming it had “sprouted.” Granted, one year in the refrigerator and that can happen to a root vegetable. Although some might consider throwing out a food item that is growing a stem and leaves “normal,” I felt it was an unjustified act of aggression. The children were also upset, not just because they had grown attached to the potato but because now they must find another way to pay for college.

  Vink, Vink

  I had always sworn that I would never, ever go on a cruise. The idea of masses of random people in an enclosed space rushing to the buffet line has always made me want to strap on a life vest and jump, right there in my living room. I am, however, grateful for people who choose to spend their holidays on those floating behemoths, since all those people will not be vacationing where I go.

  Last year, my husband received a travel brochure about private cruises that sail to little-known Greek islands. These idyllic destinations, scattered in the Mediterranean like Easter eggs waiting to be found, evoked such a severe case of wanderlust that I had to sit down on the sofa and stare into space for a considerable amount of time, effectively tuning out the steady chorus of “Mom, what’s for dinner?” I was overcome by images of fishing villages with whitewashed houses, hills bursting with fig trees and grapevines, and close-ups of fresh seafood platters that made me swoon. There were also images of the boats used on these cruises, shiny, mahogany-trimmed floating works of art, equipped with professional chefs and staff members who look like Pierce Brosnan…Pierce Brosnan in uniform.

  In my parallel life, the one that takes place entirely in my head, that is the type of cruise I would take. My wardrobe, all off-white linen with nary a wrinkle, would accentuate my fine taste in accessories and my well-toned upper arms. In my parallel life, I am devoted to upper-arm exercises. In fact, I am so devoted that when I travel and don’t have access to my dumbbells, I just use cans of diced tomatoes, maize, chayote, or whatever canned vegetable I find. You won’t catch me missing a day of triceps and biceps curls just because I’m deep in the jungles of Costa Rica!

  And it was with these thoughts that I found myself packing for our cruise—just me, my husband, our two children, 47 of my relatives, and 2,453 random people. The occasion was my father’s surprise eightieth birthday. With relatives spanning the age and ability spectrum, our only viable option was a cruise, not the cruise of my armchair travels but one aboard what is basically a floating Nebraska.

  I was actually excited to go, not because of the nine restaurants onboard, the karaoke bar, or the tribute to Andrew Lloyd Weber, but because of the opportunity to finally spend seven days with my extended family. We used to spend weeklong vacations together regularly in Iran, vacations that allowed me to get to know my aunts and uncles as well as I know my parents. It was during these vacations that I came
to realize that “cousin” is another word for “someone better than sibling.” These are the ties that have been the secret to our survival as immigrants; it’s like a built-in safety net.

  In America, we no longer spend vacations with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Who has time, not to mention the same schedule? We get together for meals, but three hours isn’t enough to get to know someone really well; good stories don’t happen till the third day anyway. Perhaps this is part of the burden of opportunity, the price we pay for our lifestyles in our new country. Yes, we own a lot of things we never had in Iran—automatic garage door openers, panini presses, and houses with more toilets than most train stations in Asia—but we work and we work and we work. We don’t have time for vacations; nor do we have time to use our panini presses.

  Our Alaskan cruise would be my father’s first-ever birthday celebration. He was turning eighty…or so. My father does not have a birth certificate, so he and his siblings have all estimated their birth dates, dates that they all have agreed upon, except for my father. In the past ten years, my father has insisted that he is younger than previously thought. His arguments usually start with “my feet are still very soft,” followed by “feel them.” Then he goes on to describe all the foods he can eat before bedtime and still get a good night’s sleep: “curry, those egg roles at P.F. Chang’s, kabob, koofteh…” This argument is always followed by a rebuttal by my mother, who insists that in fact, he, like most people above a certain age, does not sleep well when he eats those foods, which is then followed by my father insisting that he does. This goes on until someone announces that dinner is ready, at which time my father rushes to the table, eager to prove my mother wrong.