Spring Twilight comes past due to northern France, Blog Express, and around 9, while we left the Marine Le Pen rally, a hush became settling throughout the countryside. This, the candidate had said, became the real France, and it was without a doubt France that American vacationers long for, untouched with the aid of the homogenizing forces of the worldwide journey.
Every step far away from the village square seemed a step far away from modernity, right into a peasant record so historical as to be functionally eternal. Venerable bushes creaked in the breeze; deep grasses lightly waved; the farmers of their brick houses were already placing themselves to sleep beside the fields that might need their labors to come dawn.
But then we reached the jarringly contemporary car and that most cutting-edge decision: Where shall we eat this night? Phones came out; choices have been made. We headed for Saint Quentin, the closest big city, where the net counseled a selection of promising eating places. My journeying partner, a Frenchman, and an outstanding connoisseur regaled me with descriptions of the local specialties I might need to try.
And laughed. In the center of northern France, we had found our way to an American-themed bar. Turns out the “nearest” wasn’t very near; we arrived near 10 p.M. and determined Saint Quentin’s lone open eating place.
READ MORE :
- Are the Warriors’ brogrammer army the most hated fans in sports?
- Why is Bio-Identical Hormone Replacement Therapy Gaining Popularity?
- The iPad takes a big step toward being the computer for everyone
- Congrats, Grad – Now Where Will You Live?
- Why is plane food so bad?
I’ve continually been truly bemused by American tourists who flock to American joints while overseas. I am no longer above ingesting at Pizza Hut. However, I am positive I wouldn’t fly 3,000 miles to London’s Piccadilly Circus to get myself a Meat Lovers Personal Pan pizza. However. Here we have been in Saint-Quentin, and it was 10 o’clock, and I hadn’t eaten for many many hours. I confess, I had a certain interest as to how a provincial French restaurateur might interpret my local delicacies.
The solution, if you’re questioning, is “oddly.” Not nearly as odd as the “Mexican” meals you locate in Europe, which has always jogged my memory of the plastic nigiri inside the home windows of sushi restaurants: It appears simply as it must, however, don’t attempt taking a chunk… In Saint Quentin’s Le Golden Pub, the American food was both meals and American. Sort of.
Americans genuinely do experience our bagels with cream cheese. But we do no longer experience them enough to place them on the dinner menu of our neighborhood pub.
Instead, I settled on a meal as quintessentially American as the stars and stripes or the Solo cup: a burger, a soda, and a banana cut up.