Living permanently as an expat in Paris, it is tricky finding the right balance between curiosity and gourmandise. But a classic tale of schadenfreude well-equipped me from an early age to live in France. My bedtime stories growing up were of my father’s childhood dogs and his trippy 1970s adventures in Strasbourg, France. Having previously hitchhiked through French Canada with a French guitar player not knowing a word of French, he certainly accrued an interest in the joie de vivre. When he arrived in Strasbourg early one summer morning on Bastille Day, with red in his eyes and a guitar on his back, the town was shut down. The only thing open was the ubiquitous boulangerie. Naturally, like donuts, he ordered a bag of croissants by the dozen. As the bag of warm croissants quickly became transparent, he tore open the bag, ripping apart croissant by croissant. The crispy exterior flakes ripping away in a spiral to reveal the soft, eggy center, all to the fragrance of pure butter. He had never tasted anything better. And he has never been more sick. This story not only inspired sweet dreams with strong food memories, it instilled a strong desire in me to travel, seeking out food memories of my own.
Happy Father’s Day to my dear dad, Big D, the original bon vivant. Thanks for sharing your love of food, storytelling, and humor with me.