Are you going to eat that?

Kami's pictures of her trip to France came in; they made me think of the day, ten years ago this summer, that the haddock got the best of Larry in a small Parisian cafe. The waiter set laden plates down with a courtly flourish: braised fish, vegetable puree garnished with fern, french bread so gratifyingly rock-hard it made you want to try and smash a plate-glass window with it, just to see if you could. Larry, worldly and sensible and poised even at fifteen, and a veteran picky eater, took one bite of everything, pronounced it inedible, and put her fork down with a subtle click. I think she broke the beautiful waiter's heart. We spent the rest of France seeking the Golden Arches. When we finally found them, the menu didn't list French fries. Of course they wouldn't call them that. They were called fried potato sticks or something equally descriptive and lame. Larry relished that hamburger even if it wasn't quite the same as back home; by then she was starving.