Yesterday, I touched upon American Fondue and French Fondue.
On Real-French-Crepes-Louvre-Eiffel-Tower-More-Crepes-Day in Paris, it was round about 10pm before we made it back to the area of our Hotel.
We had walked a good 15 miles that day (from the Grand Opera section, to the above mentioned P.O.I., Metro back) and were famished.
By this point, my tolerance of the French had diminished greatly*.
Settling on a cafe around the corner from our hotel, we pushed through as much of the menu as two-Americans-who-hadn’t-really-used-French-since-1995 could.
On the menu, I saw bourguignonne fondue, which I knew from Melting Pot to be yummy.
Not feeling de poisson ou de poulet, I opted for something I knew. And some French Beer.
In about 10 minutes, the waiter brought out a plate of meat and veggies.
Steve’s salad came and went. No fondue.
Steve’s entree came.
“Excuse-moi, fondue?“, I asked the waiter.
He looks at my plate of raw meat and the empty table, “ils n’ont pas d’être fini?” (they didn’t bring that over yet?)
And shortly there after, I had a bubbling pot of hot oil. Said pot damn near caught the table on fire- FLAME ON.
Accustomed to how we roll in the US, I popped the pieces of meat into the oil.
The Nice French Lady next to me nearly choked on her salad.
“NON! NON! NON!”, she exclaimed, laughing. “Pousser la vache! Pousser ici! Ici!” (“Push the cow! Push here! Here!”, she really did say “Pousser la vache”. t’was awesome.) as she skewed my beef onto a tong and placed it in the oil.
Eyes wide, “OOOOOHHHHHH! je vois! C’est tres different! Merci!” (“Oh, I see! This is very different! Thanks!”)
After filling up on fondue, the Very Nice French People next to us had fun playing “who can extinguish the hellfire of this fondue pot!?” with us before we put a plate on the flame and laughed, knowing we were out of danger.
* Upcoming post, the difference between Nice French People and the Vast Majority of France.