The columnist’s relationship to France and its cuisine resembles a country song about disappointed passions. Those who grew up in the south of Germany wished, as in the old Degenhardt chanson, that Germany was west of the Rhine. The workers there took to the barricades, and the food had the reputation of being miles superior to the plain German home cooking. Bœuf bourguignon, foie gras, oysters, lobster: France seemed to have everything that we longed for as a delicacy and could almost never get.
They finally wanted to eat like God in France, were looking forward to their first vacation in France, and a ham and cheese baguette on the beach at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer or a menu consisting of Salade niçoise, Bouillabaisse and, at the end, Crêpes Suzette were actually delicious a tourist trap in Biarritz like a revelation.
You returned home happy and started saving for an autumn holiday trip to Paris, where you then went on the Rive Gauche and of course not on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, but definitely on one of the supposedly cheap side streets with red wine from balloon glasses Fillets and overcooked potatoes. Yes, you could have gone to La Coupole, but the food there isn’t really that good either.
In France you can (also) eat really well and badly
So the disappointments piled up, countless country inns on the route to the southern French campsites gnawed at the belief in the high mass of French cuisine with stale soups, dry pâtés and even drier fish. Only once, when the increasingly frustrated young man, who did not know the difference between hotel and restaurant accommodation, invested practically his entire vacation budget in the menu of the restaurant of a five-star hotel in Avignon, did he leave after enjoying onion soup, beef stroganoff and a sumptuous one Cheese platter and a bottle of Saint-Émilion left the establishment – burnt down, but happy. And yes, you thought about the oysters on the Atlantic beaches with nostalgia on the way back.
But then the eighties arrived, Paris faded, the new places of longing were New York, Austin and LA, the new culinary preferences were Reuben Sandwich, Chili con Carne and Enchiladas. Finally, the new millennium began with the Spanish culinary revolution, which swept away the French fatty sauces and luxurious ingredients with their explosions of flavors extracted from simple products.
Nevertheless, the old passion always flared up at the thought of Limousin lambs, Bresse chickens and the countless excellent cheeses while crossing the Grande Nation. However, she was usually bitterly disappointed in haute cuisine restaurants or country inns. The delicious coq au cidre in Normandy and a festive meal in a château in Champagne quickly faded, while half-raw onion tarts and uninspired racks of lamb left traumatic memories in Alsace.
More columns from Gunter Blank
“Well,” commented a friend who grew up in the neighboring Black Forest with relevant experience, “in France you can eat really well.” That’s how it is – and yet recently, after all the years of frustration, hope suddenly began to emerge again. Of all places in the banlieue of Orleans, in a hopelessly dreary seafood fast food restaurant with the name The Black Pearl, which is surprising for France, right next to the motorway exit, the author experienced an epiphany.
Between pensioners in beige comfortable shoes and bling-bling kids emulating Beyoncé and Jay-Z, he was served an extremely inexpensive variation of the best types of oysters. And while he enjoyed the best moules frites (mussels with chips) and a fantastic Belgian blonde as his main course, all that was missing was Captain Jack Sparrow hopping out of the rafters and buying a cup of rum for dessert.