Stinky Cheese and the Faux Pas

My dear old friend from Versailles, whom I've sadly lost touch with, loved to throw dinner parties. We lived just down the street from each other and her soirées were often last minute, very simple affairs. A few friends, a bottle of wine and something on the grill were the perfect ingredients for a pleasant evening.

So, she was expecting a baby and her parents flew in for a baby shower and quick visit. While they were in town, her mother invited me over for dinner one night with the family after they'd spent the day shopping and decorating the nursery. I was younger then, seeing Frenchy, and very body-conscious (I was only a few celery stalks and lemon wedges away from anorexia) so when I arrived to the most heavenly home-cooked smell I braced myself for moderation.

Her mom had made a very simple dish but I have had dreams about it for years. In fact, I bet I think about it more than any man I've ever dated. I have tried in vain to recreate it so I guess it's a meal best enjoyed in memories. In an enormous casserole, she placed large chunks of ham and boiled Yukon gold potatoes, then dissected a large wheel of Brie cheese and placed the two halves, rind-up on the potato and ham mixture. Everything baked in the oven until the cheese ran all gooey, down into the ham and potatoes and the rind became the most deliciously crunchy crust. I swear to God, I could have polished that whole thing off all by myself, hips be damned.

But, in the presence of company and considering that my exotic boyfriend was due in town for a rendezvous a few days from then, I showed a great deal of restraint and ate a fairly modest portion. Her mom noticed and I heard her say from the other end of the table "Elle n'aime pas..." to which I replied "Oh, no, I totally love it!" If a record had been playing, the needle would have scratched. Everyone stopped eating and in my memory, I think a fork or two dropped. Lesson #1: don't contradict the hostess. Lesson #2: let the hostess know you speak and/or understand her native language before she embarrasses herself by speaking about you in front of you, completely unaware that you understand.

No worries, though. We got along swimmingly and I was invited back for dinner before they left town and I even had them over to my house for Sunday dinner. She would not give me the recipe for the magic casserole, though, saying simply "just some good ham, good potatoes and a large wheel of Brie, bake it until everything is bubbling"... I know she's leaving something out.

Image credit: LIFE Magazine, 1949