Normally I’m not a big fan of the French. They tend to dislike Americans because we shower too much, and they bitch about any armed conflict we get into that isn’t directly involved with the saving of THEIR ass. But I’ll be the first to admit that they know what they’re doing when it comes to food.
That’s why on July 14, the girlfriend and I made our way to the Franco-American Bastille Day celebration on East 60th Street in Manhattan (no, it wasn’t sponsored by the company who developed Spaghetti-O’s – that’s just a fancy way of saying French-American). Bastille Day is kind of like the French Fourth of July, only 10 days later. It marks the date in 1789 that saw the beginning of a lovely little chapter in French History known as the Revolution, where they pretty much spit at people and cut off everybody’s head (for more information, re-read the Charles Dickens classic A Tale of Two Cities – that excruciating book most of us were forced to suffer through in 10th grade).
Anyway, the celebration had much of 60th Street blocked off and featured booth after booth fantastic French cuisine, dumbed down to suit American tastes. There were a few booths that looked like they were placed there by Lane Meyer’s mom from Better Off Dead, with "Fraunch Toast, Fraunch Fries, Fraunch Dressing, and to drink, Perru (Perrier)." But amidst the tawdry tents, we were able to find a fantastique brie and baguette sandwich, duck pate (pronounced pah-tay, for all you "uncultured" hayseeds out there), and crepes made by a rather cantankerous woman who took that whole rude-French thing a little bit too far. And while I was hoping to find a nice Bourdeaux or maybe even score a shot of Absinthe (with the wormwood extract, of course) to wash it all down, the good people from Orangina were providing free beverages for those willing to wait in line with scores of pushy French celebrants (By the way, that’s pronounced oranJEEna, not the other way – you pervert!!!).
While the social differences with the French combined with the rugby-match atmosphere of a New York street fair proved to be a bit much, I certainly was pleased with the food. So much, in fact, that I also went to check out Les Bisous (333 Washington St.), one of Hoboken’s newest restaurants – and certainly one of the nicest. The place is beautifully decorated with evocatively painted images and vivid, beautiful colors. The restaurant’s two bars offer a mind-blowing array of flavored martinis and a fantastic beer and wine selection. I went with a Stella Artois (pronounced ar-twah, not ar-toys), which is an excellent lager from Belgium, to go with my succulent scallops and garlic entrée. C’est magnifique! (NOTE: Belgium is kind of like France’s own Canada, since no matter what those Quebeqouis say, Canada is way more American than French!!!)
Les Bisous is certainly a place where you can forget about how much the French like to play the thorn in America’s side and appreciate the best they have to offer.
So I’ll end this essay from the ugly American by stating that Pierre certainly knows what he’s doing when it comes to whippin’ up some good vittles. But when it comes to waging war, they’ve got nothing outside the Foreign Legion. So by all means, France, leave the defense of the free world to everyone else and you can stay in the kitchen if you want to. Though you may want to take a break every now and then to brush up on your soccer – at least that’s what the boys from Senegal are saying!
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"Hal Wastes His Wages"
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Hal Wastes His Wages won 2nd place from the New Jersey Press Association last year for column writing. It appears in this spot every other week.