Story of mussels

           

I have been inspired by the last week’s lunch at Epoque in Cammeray where I had a great pot of mussels mariniere.  That lunch brought memories of a funny situation I experienced long time ago when travelling through France.

I and my partner were travelling by car from Warsaw to Paris. It was a very long journey. Google tells me that now it is 1,596 km. It was a tiring trip but I am glad that we made it as it was educational and fun.

It was my first trip to France and through France. I have been brought up on French literature and films. I admired the country and thought that anything French is the best. I must say that  in Poland I was not unique in my Francophile attitude. Poles, for ages, loved France and anything French, even if the love was not reciprocated.

So here I was, travelling at night in France, with heart full of admiration and awe but it got late and I was hungry, sleepy, impatient and tired. I was not in the best of moods annoyingly pressing my companion to stop as soon as possible. He wanted to find a really nice place to show this Polish girl, who did not know the big world yet, the best West had to offer. Eventually we left a motorway in search of any place to eat and sleep. 

We were lucky to find a smallish town and a charming hotel and a restaurant. Things started to look up. We rushed to the restaurant as soon as possible. It was a typical French place with red and white checked table cloths and not too bright lights.

So, we were eventually sitting at a table expecting a fantastic French meal. However, we had a small problem; none of us knew French at that time. Loving France as I did, I got a job to decipher the menu.  We both were to soon realise, that loving a country does not mean that it is always easy to communicate with the natives. Nobody wanted to help us to make a right choice.  I was completely lost looking at the menu and suddenly I saw the word POMME. That was promising. If something is served with apples it must be good, I thought. My French did not stretch to understanding “ de terre”. Pomme maybe be a sign of fine dining but potatoes - pomme de terre are quite pedestrian.  We were waiting with anticipation for the dish served with apples and after a while THIS appeared in front of us.... 

                               

This was not fine dining and my reputation was shattered.

Blood sausage, if prepared well, can be fantastic. I think that most likely this one was rather a nice country dish. Alas, we were not in the mood to enjoy it. It was too rude a surprise. My memory of how it tasted faded away. It was pushed into insignificance by what we saw next. On the tables around us big  bowls full of mussels started to appear.

                          



It was obviously a specialty of the restaurant. My partner may have not known enough about French but being Swedish knew all there is to know about mussels. I learnt that not only Belgium love their mussels but Swedish as well and French know how to cook them extremely well. The Swede was looking at the dining people with envy and chagrin, disappointment with his own meal showing clearly on his face. I felt that I failed him badly.


After some wine and good food, the atmosphere in the whole restaurant was significantly lifted. My companion started to communicate, in rather original way, with the French around to find out the name of this heavenly dish they were eating. He wanted to make sure he orders the right thing the next time. And it sounded like that...

People at the tables around us were now smiling, gesticulated energetically animated by wine and food. They were talking to us about things we could not understand, but it was friendly and fun. It reminded me of the Babette's Feast. 

It was an evening of learning. I learn the difference between pomme and pomme de terre and between blood sausage and mules mariniere.  And I learnt how to eat mussels "properly" using empty shells as tongs.