You Can’t Make An Omelette…
Going to France is supposed to be a culinary treat for everyone, but vegetarians like myself are not the favourite customers of the average restaurateur. Before I stepped onto the Eurostar last summer, I’d already psyched myself up to eat a lot of omelettes and could only wonder at how a vegan might cope.
Richard, my elder son, and travelling companion on this occasion, is a dedicated carnivore. Place part of a dead animal and a mountain of chips on his plate and he’s perfectly happy. He’d rather go to war against Troy than eat a Greek salad, so finding establishments to suit us both was quite time consuming. Even snack lunches posed a dilemma. Many cafés have removed the staple baguette-fromage from their repertoire in favour of dishes with a higher mark up. The previously plain baguette-jambon favoured by Richard now comes smothered in STUFF. After searching in vain for a sandwich composed of nothing but bread and ham, he resorted to scraping off the gherkins, pickles and tomatoes and as much of the mayonnaise as possible before he sank his teeth into what was left.
Our French friends thought the story hilarious, although they’ve never quite got the point of vegetarianism either. I’m quite used to having an omelette plonked down in front of me with a flourish at their house and having to remove the garnish; artistically placed pieces of ham or sea food. No wonder their cat always lies at - or sometimes on - my feet during mealtimes! On this occasion, however, we were lunching in a restaurant. I chose a cheese salad, trying not to glance sideways at the shoal of fried fish our host had ordered for himself as a starter. He took great pleasure in dipping each tiny fish into a bowl of mayonnaise and biting its head off, before consuming the rest with a sigh of satisfaction. At least, he resisted the temptation to dangle one in front of me invitingly, as he did last year with the chicken gizzards. His main course, a pile of raw mince with a couple of raw eggs turned even Richard’s stomach and he tried to keep his eyes fixed on his own fairly well cooked steak.
On our last evening in Paris, we went up to Montmartre and there were so many people around that we only just managed to squeeze into a restaurant at all. Although there was no mention of it on the menu outside, the smiling girl who showed us to our table assured me that the chef would be happy to make me an omelette. We waited a good twenty minutes for a waiter to take our order and even longer for the food to arrive. Richard tucked into his steak with gusto, while I contemplated my own plate and wondered whether to send it back whence it came. Almost concealed by the green salad and heap of chips were two fried eggs. Was the chef taking the Michel? I’m still not sure, but the thought of another long wait and someone in the kitchen angrily garnishing an omelette with whatever unpleasant substances came to hand persuaded me to eat it. After all, what’s the difference between two fried eggs and two eggs whipped up and then fried, when you think about it? A couple or three glasses of wine to wash it down with and it didn’t seem to matter nearly as much.