“This is unlike any burger I’ve ever seen.”
Trust me, my husband has seen a lot of burgers, so he would know. The one he was looking at in that moment had just been microwaved. It was was the “Edition Limitée Saloon Burger,” part of the “Hey USA* ” yearly sale at Picard, our favorite frozen-food store.
(The asterisks on promotional materials for the sale guide you to the French translations. Here, we learn that, “Hey USA” translates to, Salut les États-Unis.)
“The (pretzel) roll is hard as a rock,” Don noted, as he tried to keep the meat from sliding away from the condiments. “I need a sharper knife. Oh, and now I have to eat it with a fork and knife, like the French.” This last bit exasperated him because no ‘Merican worth their high-sodium processed food would eat a burger with utensils, like some kind of dandy from the continent.
He did like the melted cheddar cheese, though.
I went to Picard – undeniably one of the fanciest, tastiest, coolest frozen-food destinations in the world – to buy a bunch of their products stamped with the “Hello America” label. I needed to see how well the kings of gastronomy could prepare American cuisine. On a deeper level, I needed to understand what their choices and execution say about how they view my homeland.
It seems the French, or at least the chefs and marketing execs at Picard, believe the typical American diet consists of burgers, mac and cheese, potato chips, hot dogs, chicken wings, chicken fingers, pulled pork, corn dogs, a “tortilla cone,” ribs, Chicago-style deep-dish pizza and potatoes slathered with ranch dressing. We are, according to the promotional pamphlet that landed in my mailbox, a nation that enjoys to, “partagez la plus delicious des finger food *. (* Share the most delicious food à manger avec les doigts.)
They’re not wrong. We love our battered-and-fried cheese sticks, blooming onions and pork rinds. While we were relieved that Picard didn’t try to take on the cheesesteak or hoagie, we were a bit thrown by the highly questionable inclusion of Parmentier de pulled pork. Parmentier, a typical French dish made with creamy potatoes, often includes salmon or duck, not de pulled pork.
[Time out, though, because this is good: Parmentier got its name from Antoine-Augustin Parmentier (1737-1813), a pharmacist who promoted the potato as nutritious after surviving on them while imprisoned in Prussia during the Seven Years’ War. Before Parmentier’s successful campaign, the French believed potatoes, which they used as hog feed, caused leprosy. Now they probably think it’s caused by ranch dressing.]
By the time I arrived at our local Picard, three days after the sale had kicked off, the two cases dedicated to American food had been picked over. The young French woman next to me was loading up her handbasket with a half dozen meals. I had to limit my selection, not just to accommodate my tiny freezer, but also to avoid overwhelming Don, who – in spite of his strongest Philly sensibilities – has become quite accustomed to the refined brilliance of French cuisine.
I checked out with the Saloon Burger, part of Le Texas Rancher menu; Filets de Poulet Croustillants (crunchy chicken fingers); Potatoes Sauce Ranch & Onion Crispy; and Red Velvet Cheesecake.
The only thing we gave a passing grade to were the chicken fingers. They tasted like real chicken fingers with an even better crust. More croustillant, if you will. Don credited this not to any American ingenuity, but to Picard’s mastery at frozen cuisine.
The potatoes were mushy and the ranch dressing didn’t hit the mark. The red velvet cheesecake was bizarre. Aside from flavor that didn’t resemble cheesecake or red velvet, its miniscule size made it decidedly un-American.
As far as nutritional value goes, the French – who label food on an easy-to-read A-E scale – gave the best score to the potatoes (B), which shows how far the vegetable has come from its leprosy days. The others ranged from B (chicken fingers) to E (cheesecake).
What does all this tell us about the way the French view Americans? You might expect me to say the dumbed-down menus of gooey, cheesy, ranchey, pulled-porky fare proves the French look down their highly-trained noses at rubes like us.
Not so!
For one thing, this is an annual sale, and it is promoted with flourish and anticipation. This exquisite food store, which sells delicious French desserts, quiche, and the cutest little appetizers you’ve ever seen, devotes two weeks to American food that sells like, well, hotcakes.
Even beyond the frozen food market, you can clearly see a favorable attitude toward the US. It’s there, in the way they dress (Yankees caps, Lakers jerseys, Chuck Taylors), the way they talk (Un mail, le weekend, le selfie) and what they tell me.
Take the woman next to me at the produce stand the other day. After ordering green beans, herbs and root veggies, I asked for deux pommes de Pink Lady. I said the Pink Lady part with an American accent because I felt stupid Frenchifying it. At that, the woman shot me a swift double take, then a huge smile. When I pardoned my American accent she said, Oh, non! J’adore l’accent américain.
Better still, consider the seamstress hemming a pair of my jeans who was fascinated by my move to France. I explained that it was a long-held dream of mine, that we wanted to adopt the lifestyle, the language, the culture, the food. It didn’t hurt that we had become disillusioned by our country’s politics, health care and violence.
“Isn’t it funny,” she said, “how much you want to live in France and how much I want to live in the United States.”
Wait until she discovers deep-fried Oreos.
We went for the ribs which weren’t bad.
I'm stickin' with my favorite fast food: kebab with fries! Though I must say the best kebabs are found in Germany, with its large Turkish population. Though I must say that I miss Texas style BBQ.