by Sarah Commerford
6/11/2010

When I was six, my parents were divorced. For reasons still unclear to me, except that my father had been a French teacher and my brother, sister and I bilingual, my mother decided to pack up our family and move to Paris, France.

It was a big adjustment – no more Dad, new country, tiny one bedroom walk-up apartment, new school and new food. Goodbye peanut butter and Fluff on Wonder bread, hello organ meats, stinky cheese and petit pain au chocolate. We went to a very traditional working class public school, where I didn’t dare misbehave or speak out in the classroom lest I be punished and sent to “le piquet,” aptly named after an actual form of military punishment used by the British in the late 17th century in which a soldier was forced to stand on one foot on a pointed stake. Little did I know that level of discipline also applied in the lunchroom where children were expected to be quiet and appreciative regardless of the swill the “cooks” dished up.

Every day we would file into the cafeteria and sit down to lunch served on clear glass plates and real glasses. When I accidently broke one of those, there was big trouble, but a worse punishment was not to finish my food. If I left so much as a crumb on the plate, one of the militia of stern French “lunch ladies” (I remember them as having moles and dirty aprons, but that might be unfair) would approach and stand over me until every bit of my plate was cleaned off. It was in this Parisian lunchroom that I was introduced to sardines, real butter, Gruyere cheese, mysterious meat and radishes, the bane of my young existence.
It didn’t take long for me confirm the schoolyard rumors that the gray, rubbery slab on my plate was horsemeat. I was horror stricken, as I was completely infatuated with horses as a kid (still am). Eating sliced pony floating in lukewarm gelatinous gravy made me cry and gag with every bite – how could they? Then there were the radishes; I loathed them. One day, out of fear and desperation, I discretely tucked the radishes in my underpants, hoping to dispose of them later in the bathroom. But, alas, that was not to be. We went straight back to the classroom, at which time, the four radishes I’d stashed fell out of my underwear and rolled along the wooden floor for all to see. Pandemonium broke out as the kids started laughing and yelling for the teacher to punish me for breaking a cardinal rule. Mortified, the rebellious American girl was sent to the principal’s office for the rest of the afternoon.
The next day rolled around (no pun intended), and so did lunch. Shaking and terrified, sure that I was now being watched by the entire school, I choked down the horse meat and yes, put enough butter on the radishes to cover (most) of the taste. My eyes watered, I heaved and I sweated, but I got the stuff down – not a scrap left on my plate! Feeling slightly ill, but stronger for the experience, I left the lunchroom victorious because I was still alive.

Over time, and with practice, I actually began to acquire a taste for the meat and the radishes, and when tripe, tongue and chicken livers were served, I dug in and focused on the flavor not the texture – plus, there was no way I was going to try to put that stuff in my underwear. I had my first cheese and tomato soufflé in that lunchroom – a rare meatless treat - of which I became an immediate and eager fan. Eventually, after a few weeks, the lunch ladies stopped stalking me and picked on a different finicky eater.

Because of that experience, and being immersed in the culture of a foreign country I became an adventurous and brave eater. In fact, once I settled in to the Parisian way of life, I begged my mother to take me to the bustling open-air markets with her, where I learned to haggle with the saucy vendors for cuts of meat, fruit and some of the most beautiful vegetables I’d ever seen. Having only known American supermarkets, where everything was packaged and wrapped in plastic, I was instantly mesmerized by the impressionist-like colors and beauty of freshly picked flowers, lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes and exotic chanterelle mushrooms overflowing from wooden crates or displayed in baskets. Magnificent bunches of lavender, assorted herbs and bouquets garnis enticed my senses and perfumed the morning air.

And I got to know the owners of our neighborhood patisserie where my mother sent me to buy a fresh baguette everyday. Soon, they started giving me a magical miniature glazed éclair as a daily treat that I can still smell and taste today.

Over the years, my love of good food from all countries and cultures, and my enthusiasm for cooking has continued, inspired by the challenge of opening myself to foreign culinary experiences, at first by necessity, later by passion.