The Revenge of the French

I promise that this will end soon, but here’s another observation about something I have learned about food since we started planning a wedding. Beware of any food for which there is no American word. If you have to borrow a word from the French to describe something, it’s probably something guys aren’t going to like. Some examples follow.

I can’t speak for all guys of course, but I feel pretty confident that most guys don’t enjoy having to get all dressed up and go to some swanky black-tie affair with their wives. Part of the problem is those interminable receptions where everybody stands around trying to make conversation with people who they would rather not talk to. When we men are forced to do this we immediately become ferociously hungry. The problem is there is no real food to be had, only tuxedoed waiters bobbing and weaving through the crowd with silver platters of hors d’oeuvres. This is a French word meaning, tiny slivers of food-like substance. The phonetically correct pronunciation of this word should tell us men all we need to know about this sort of thing…hors d’oeuvers…pronounced…Whores dee overs. That’s right, we’re about to be screwed.

So, you’re stuck making small talk with a very rich and very old couple who you’ve never seen before in your life. You’re about to compliment the blue-haired woman on her lovely patterned stockings, (which are actually a severe, debilitating case of varicose veins), when the hors d’oeuvers tray comes by, saving you from this frightful embarrassment. You pick up something called a “crab puff.” It’s actually delicious. You’re about to grab four or five of these beauties and fill your jacket pockets when you look up and the waiter has vanished. God knows when he will be back so you excuse yourself and desperately try to find crab puff guy.

When you finally sit down for the meal, the first thing you’re served is another French specialty…vichyssoise, a French word which can be roughly translated, “why in God’s name is this soup cold?” If you were paying attention in that 20^th century history class in college you’ll remember that the Vichy government of France during WWII were the bunch of cowards who collaborated with the Nazis. So, of course any soup named after them would have to be served cold.

Just about the time you think you have finally escaped from this French concentration camp, you’re served your entrée…filet mignon. This French word means roughly, “where is the rest of my steak?” Actually it really means “cute fillet.” Yeah, well only the French would think to describe a cut of beef as “cute.”

Finally, it’s time for dessert. You’re thinking that the only thing that could possibly redeem this mini-meal is a big helping of peach cobbler and ice cream. But then Pierre shows up and places a delicate plate in front of you that has a mint leaf and one raspberry on top of a teacup sized portion of…Crème Brulee.

On your way home you make a quick run by Chick-fil-a and Krispy Kreme.  

Wedding Planning Part VII

Months of preparation, weeks of worry, days of scrutinizing and agonizing over every detail, every possible contingency, and finally the day we have all been dreading has arrived. At this point there’s nothing left to do but take a deep breath and charge into the breach. Are these quotations from a soldier’s journal the morning of D-Day? Nope. Today we have our last meeting with…the caterer.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Pam has crunched the numbers with relentless efficiency. But at some point final decisions have to be made and a check cut. Today is that day, and afterwards there will be no turning back. I mean once you pick the filet and chicken marsala entrees you can’t wake up in the middle of the night next week and suddenly decide that the shrimp and grits with Virginia ham might have been a better play!

But if all we had to worry about was picking an entrée this would be a walk in the park. No, there’s also the prickly debate over “crudités vs. butler passed.” Now, I don’t have to tell you what a thorny issue that can be. Actually…I probably do since before the advent of Pinterest, nobody knew what the heck a “butler passed” was! I see the term “butler passed” in Pam’s notes and I’m thinking, “…may he rest in peace and all, but why is that my problem?? Are there no other butler’s available in the city of Richmond for that weekend??”

Then there’s the question of the champagne toast, the optional “coffee bar” and the baffling omission of sweet tea from the beverage queue. They list lemonade and water only. Excuse me, but I’m pretty sure that this wedding isn’t taking place in upstate New York. This is Virginia people! It will be the middle of July and we’re going to be outside. If we don’t offer iced, sweet tea with lemon, we’re going to have a riot on our hands. If we have to cut cost somewhere, we can always scratch the Dom Perignon and go with the Cold Duck, but I'm drawing the line at sweet tea.

Last night my wife was sitting on the sofa at her laptop, with her three ring wedding planning binder opened and copious notes littered all over the room. She looks up at me and asks, “Do you think there is any way that you can come with Kaitlin and me to the caterer’s meeting tomorrow? She batted her eye lashes, her bottom lip quivered ever so faintly and I found myself saying, “Sure.”

So, I will come along to Celebrations on the Reservoir today to meet the caterer and hash out the great crudités vs. butler passed debate with my girls. I will try my best not to say anything snarky or embarrassing. When asked my opinion I will offer it succinctly and without embellishment, “I agree! Oh, and pass along my condolences to that butler’s family.”

A D-Day Tribute

 

70 years ago this morning thousands of 19 year old kids were being killed on the beaches of Normandy. Two of my mother’s brothers were there along with my wife’s grandfather, who died about a month later.

I read books about it, watch the grainy newsreels, listen to the dwindling group of survivors tell their stories, and yet my mind cannot fathom such a thing. Even Saving Private Ryan, Steven Spielberg’s epic retelling, with its powerful, almost unwatchable opening twenty minutes fails to fully expose the horror that those terrified young men faced on that gray morning. Yet, face it they did.

I try to imagine what would happen today if our government were required to plan and execute something as grand and intricately detailed as D-Day. In late 1943 in a practice run for D-Day called Exercise Tiger, over 900 men were killed either by friendly fire or submarine attacks of a ship which had wandered off course. Of course, back then the debacle wasn’t leaked to the press so it was largely kept from the public. Today, with social media and ubiquitous cell phone cameras, that would be impossible. I can’t imagine any modern President being able to overcome such a public relations disaster.

 

 

Luckily for me, my Dad was in the South Pacific on this day in 1944. Had his vision been a bit better, he could have been one of the boys storming the beaches that day, and depending upon which unit he was in, his chances of survival might not have been so good. Of course, had he died that day, this blog would be just a bit more vapid and uninspired than usual.

I’m not one to go overboard on this “greatest generation” business. I mean, my Dad’s generation did accomplish an awful lot and didn’t whine about their lot in life nearly as much as subsequent, far less accomplished generations have. But they weren’t perfect. Have a listen to your average group of octogenarians talk about race for thirty minutes and you’ll be disabused of any romantic notions of their moral superiority. The truth is that every generation is made up of rogues and princes. Every generation has helped build the world; every generation has done their fair share of terrible things to help destroy it. You take the good with the bad, because there’s plenty of both in us all.

Still, when I watch those jumpy black and white newsreels and I look into the eyes of those men, I can’t help but be overcome with profound gratitude that they answered the bell so often and so well all those years ago. Those guys (and girls) rid the world of the Nazi’s, and for that they have earned an eternal debt of gratitude from all who have come after.