Branching out

From Gabriel's new culinary horizons

Six months had passed. I had spent my entire life watching everyone around me delight in the delectable delicacies that this fine country has to offer. Mama and Papa never seem to stop eating. Entrecôte, magret de canard, pasta al aglio e olio. My abuelita has the best of many worlds as she is also responsible for the best Cuban cuisine on the planet. Finally, my big sister has them all beat. She can eat an entire Crottin de Chevignol without coming up for breath. But that’s not all. She’ll feed on the finest cheeses from the Jura, loves saucisson sec, taramasalata au piment d’ espelette (from the genius poissionnière across the street) and approaches things that most Americans see only in nightmares or on PBS documentaries.

But six months had passed and all I had tasted was milk. Lots and lots of milk. What’s the point of being born in France if all you get passed your tastebuds is milk, milk and a little more milk?

I knew my folks would give in sooner or later. Papa stepped into Naturalia on the rue Cambronne to buy some organic carrots. We took them off to Abuelita’s country residence and mom prepared them with all the care in the world.

From Gabriel's new culinary horizons

I was a little suspicious at first. I was expecting something like pancakes, confit de canard or fois gras (another of my sister's favorites); but all I got was a blob of carrot purée.

I shouldn’t complain. It broke the monotony. I suppose I’ll have to wait until summer to get my steak tartare.