Baked Beans and Scrapple
Explaining our odd cuisine to the world's famous gourmands
“I don’t understand,” said the French woman seated on the other side of our circle of chairs. “In America, why put mélasse (molasses) on vegetables?”
She was referring to the description of Boston Baked Beans I included in a roundup of regional American cuisine – the topic of our English-language discussion group at l’Institute Franco-Americain. I didn’t have an adequate answer. Maybe because many Americans grew up with vegetables that didn’t taste good on their own and we got inventive? Maybe because canned beans are bland and flavorless? Maybe because we really like sweet stuff?
Candied baked beans weren’t even the most offensive dish on my list. These French adults, who gather weekly to practice English, were horrified by the smothered Chicago-style hotdog, barbecue sauce, “Funeral Potatoes” topped with potato chips and cheesesteaks à la Cheez Whiz. (“What does this mean, cheese in a can?”)
What really pushed their gourmet sensibilities, however, was Scrapple.
Don and I joined the Franco-American Institute shortly after arriving in Rennes. They have a terrific English-language library, a great staff, and a weekly French-language discussion group that I was anxious to join. After a few months, one of their staff members asked if I would lead a weekly discussion group for intermediate and advanced English-language learners. I was thrilled. Because my Visa doesn’t give me the right to work in France, I was searching for a volunteer position. The notion that I’d have a volunteer job and be able to entertain the French with American cultural oddities like putting ice in drinks was just an added bonus.
Of course I had to kick it off with a topic that would allow me to extol the virtues of some of Philly’s finest cuisine. While a couple of the younger group members could get onboard with our Stromboli, a discussion of Scrapple ingredients almost threatened the France-US Tax Treaty.
We read the description:
Traditionally a mush of pork scraps and trimmings left over from butchering, combined with cornmeal and wheat flour, often buckwheat flour, and spices. The mush is formed into a semi-solid congealed loaf, and slices of the scrapple are then pan-fried before serving. Scrapple is commonly considered an ethnic food of the Pennsylvania Dutch, including the Mennonites and Amish.
I braced myself for the questions.
What is this thing called “trimmings?”
Hold on to your Hermes scarves, messieurs et mesdames. This is gonna get ugly.
Trimmings, I explained, are the parts of the meat that the butcher won’t sell to you. Like leftovers that he cuts off. What they throw in the poubelle.
There were audible gasps.
And what does “semi-congealed” mean?
Coagulé – the French word which is exactly what it sounds like – didn’t feel like the best response. I managed to reel them back from the edge by describing Scrapple’s consistency as comparable to pâté and Scottish haggis.
It wasn’t just the notion of eating coagulated pig snouts that freaked out these people who – let’s face it – eat snails (which, not for nothing, are delish!). They also were thrown off by the cultural and language differences of our cuisine.
The same woman who was horrified by baked beans just couldn’t wrap her head around Biscuits and Gravy. I explained that the flour- and milk-based gravy was like one of their sauces, but with meat chunks in it. The gravy was poured over a biscuit and eaten for breakfast. After a few back-and-forths I realized this woman was stumped by assuming a Southern biscuit was the same as the French biscuit. Their biscuit is our cookie, so she was picturing the famous LU Petit Beurre cookies with saucy meat chunks on top.
No wonder they kept asking, “And you eat this?”
We moved on to the Fluffernutter.
“You get really soft white bread. Not what you have at the boulangerie, but something like the sliced brioche bread you see at the supermarket,” I explained. “On one piece you put peanut butter. On the other you put marshmallow fluff. Then you put them together for a sandwich.”
The questions started flying:
Excusez-moi, but what is peanut butter?
What is this marish-mallow fluff?
And, again: You eat this?
The woman to my left, who spent most of the class toggling between exasperation and nausea, was thrilled to find a dish on the list that didn’t gross her out: The Cobb Salad, invented in California. Oh, yes, she nodded, she would very much like to taste the Cobb salad. But none of the other things.
It’s also quite confounding to the French that Americans eat any fruit or vegetable, no matter what time of year. Strawberries in February? Grapes in November? Insane! Yes, I admit with a touch of embarrassment, but you have to realize that those strawberries and grapes, and our picturesque Red Delicious Apples, have absolutely no flavor.
Why would we eat them, then?
Because they are big and red and look like perfect apples, so we like them. We Americans also like to have whatever we want, when we want to have it.
There’s a certain sound of disapproval that the French make by sucking in on their mouth when they feel bad that someone is missing the whole entire point. They made that sound.
As the discussion continued, however, it became clear that quite a few in the group had been to the US and confessed to actually enjoying some of the local cuisine. One young man had tried KFC and liked it very much. Another had Chicago-style pizza, though he said he preferred New York-style.
They just do not, and will not, eat strawberries out of season. Aside from the obvious heresy, eating fruit out of season deprives the glorious wait for ripe melons and peaches, crisp white asparagus, plump blueberries and artichokes the size of a baby’s head. The first nip in the air brings apples and pears. The smell of roasting chestnuts reminds us that Christmas is near.
To be fair, though, McDonald’s (MacDooo) is quite popular in France. We also have a Pizza Hut mixed in among the hip cafes in our neighborhood. Junk food aisles in supermarkets – while a quarter of the size of the yogurt aisle – carry flavored potato chips. (Don still complains that he can’t find a decent pretzel.) Hamburgers are on many restaurant menus, although it’s not unusual for the French to eat them with a fork and knife.
And, of course, the French love their cookies, er, biscuits.
Great post. I served my French father-in-law scrapple once, during a visit Stateside. He loved it. Also loved bourbon. C'est si bon. (Peanut butter remains a mystery.)
I had a brief fling with a French lady and tried to learn a little French. This was a long time go but I still remember the word for peanuts. Yes, a great word.