Fromage et Fruit

 

There I was in the capital of France, a skinny, wide-eyed, 18-year-old college sophomore, taking in the sights and sounds of Paris.  In required Art History I had studied the art and architecture of Europe. In the required foreign language program, I practiced spoken French and read great French literature. In required Music I heard the works of great composers and in required Contemporary Civilization I read the words of ancient and modern philosophers. All that book learning prepared me for the world l entered when I disembarked from my first plane ride and set foot in foreign country.  It gave me a framework on which to place each new edifice or painting, conversation or meal.

My sister Roberta and I shared this adventure to France together. She was my older, wiser companion by six years and had been to Europe after she graduated from college.  It was understood in our family that if we attended a city college (which only cost $14 a semester plus books and bus fare in 1968), we would be rewarded with a trip to Europe upon graduation. My trip came a little early because all of Roberta’s travel mates went off and got married.  If my sister, the French teacher, wanted a travel companion to visit her beloved France, the fellow sightseer would have to be me. Lucky me. Lucky us.

We were fortunate, in addition, to know people in the country. We had met our older French cousins, Rosa and Schmiel, when they had visited the United States a few years previously. Schmiel walked the French way with his hands behind his back or else with an urbane walking stick. Rosa had the understated elegance of an older French woman with the lovely smile of a Renoir girl. They had escaped to France during the Holocaust, so beneath their welcoming, open demeaners lay the bruise of their wartime experience in German-occupied France. Their daughter Renee, a Sorbonne professor, and husband Michel, a dentist, reflected the success and assimilation of the next generation. We were invited to their home for dinner and met their little son Philippe who was fascinated that the two strangers in front of him came all the way from the United States of America. This was many years before the internet or zoom, so anyone from faraway was considered strange and exotic.

I don’t remember everything we were served at dinner, but I do remember one course in particular:  fruit and cheese at the end of the meal. Neither my sister nor I had been brought up on imported cheeses. The most exotic cheese in our refrigerator was bright orange American or white, large-curd cottage cheese. We declined the slightly odorous fromage placed in front of us, but reached out enthusiastically for the fresh apricots and peaches. We nonchalantly bit directly into the delicious flesh of the fruit. There was a silent pause around the table. Shocked faces all around. “Ah,” my cousin, mirthfully explained to his son, “They come from America, where there are cowboys and Indians and savages. These people do not eat cheese and they don’t know how to eat their fruit with a knife and fork.” I returned to the United States, and on occasion, consume cubes of French or Italian cheese and daintily cut my fruit with silver utensils. Despite the touches of sophistication I have acquired on my travels, I will always remain “une sauvage americaine.”

“Bon appetit mes amis.” Eat your fruit and cheese, and eat it heartily and well.

 

Marsha Hoffer

1.29.21