Food Memoir

Don’t Judge A Snail by Its Shell

            It was mid-afternoon on a sunny summer day. Looking to my left and right, my sister and mom were both in a dream like state gazing at the exquisite sights of Paris. The air was fresh, and the warmth of the sun lightly kissed our faces. Leading from the sidewalks of the Champs-Élysées we casually stroll down the pebbled walkway entering the Jardin des Tuileries. Suddenly a whiff of something delicious crosses paths with my nostrils.  I turn my head to see a quaint little café poking out from behind the trees. Its inviting atmosphere catches not only my attention.

“Shall we stop for a bite?” my sister asks, as if reading everyone’s mind.  We all nod in agreement and make our way over. The café is completely outdoors with nothing but a railing identifying the property. There is a small building in the middle, which must have been the kitchen, and a plentiful of worn wooden tables and chairs spread out making up the entire thing. A tall man in a vest walks towards us, a genuine smile rests on his face.

            “Combien?” he asks cheerfully.

“Uh, trois,” I reply.

 The waiter seats us at one of the square tables with a wide red umbrella shading the three chairs surrounding it, and hands us all a menu.

“Do you speak English?” My mother bursts out before he can say another word.

I instantly place my palm to my face, embarrassed. I couldn’t believe she just said that. We haven’t been in France for more than twenty-four hours and she was already acting like an annoying American tourist.

“A little,” he replies with a thick accent, “do you speak French?”

As if her job was to humiliate me, she points in my direction.

“Un peu,” I let out a nervous laugh and squish my fingers together indicating the small amount through a hand gesture. With three years of high school French under my belt, I feel confident enough to at least order food. He leaves us to decide on our meals.

Trying my best to translate the foreign language to my mother and sister we begin to look over the menu. Then my eyes stop on a word I was familiar with but never had the guts to try before: Escargots. Feeling adventurous, I suggest we order the appetizer just to try it. My sister makes a disgusted face of disapproval. But my mom promises to have at least one.

“Je vouldrais Les Escargots à la Bourguignonne,” I tell the waiter when he returns. After placing our orders I eagerly begin to prepare myself for this new experience.

A short amount of time passes when a delicious aroma again overcomes me. I realize this was the scent that originally drew me to this café, but more fine-tuned this time. I could smell the rich fragrance of butter and an unmistakable crisp garlic scent as the waiter rounded the corner towards our table. He was carrying a ceramic, white plate with six indentations, each holding an individual snail. They weren’t very big, about the size of a quarter maybe slightly larger. What surprised me the most was the brightly striped brown spiraled shells still attached sitting in a pool of melted garlic and parsley butter. We were provided with a miniature fork for removing the snail from its shell along with some fresh baguette bread. After taking out one from its casing, which wasn’t too difficult, and placing it on top of a slice of bread, I hold it up and make an encouraging face. Then I take my first bite. The tender texture of the meat surprises me again. It was not as slimy as one imagines a snail to be. The mixture of flavors fills my mouth and lights up my taste buds. The warm bread becomes a comfy pillow for the soft, seasoned snail meat. I couldn’t help but to take in another mouthful.

My sister giggles. “So, how does it taste?”

“It’s phenomenal, you have to try it!” I exclaim, “This tastes so much better than you’d expect!” My mom and sister look at each other and shrug. I’ve peaked their interest. Hesitant at first they begin to follow my lead, placing a naked snail atop a piece of bread. The bread crunches between their teeth as they bite down and a small amount of butter leaks from their lips. A small smile begins to form on both of their faces.

“Wow, you were right.” My sister says as she too goes for a second helping.  Soon all six of the shells are vacant and the pools of garlic butter have all but been sopped up by the remaining bread pieces. When we all agree we are finished eating and ready to move on to the next experience, I catch the waiter’s attention.

           “L’addition, s’il vous plaît,” I say, asking for the check.

“Merci beacoup!” My mom yells back at the waiter in her worst French accent.

After eating snails in the iconic city of Paris my horizons broadened about food and different cultures for the better. You can’t always judge a snail by its shell!