I tend to find myself traveling a lot more often than I used to. Before, I would use my Irish Dancing competitions - that were unbelievably randomly placed around the world - as a means of seeing the country I live in. I have jigged in places as random as Nashville, Denver, and Boston. This, however, didn’t satisfy my hunger for travel. Once I left the tan, sequined, and ginger world of Irish Dancing, I was at a stand still until years later during my hop abroad to be a twelveish year old pixie with an affinity for adventure and a strictly asian fanbase. This ignited such a fire in me that I found myself seeing more of the world than ever. My multiple hops across the atlantic have proven to be more than educational, but lifechanging. This, my friends, is just one instance in which my life will never be the same.

The French are known for their slightly off-the-wall traditions - at least to us Americans. We are not first in line to eat frogs or snails, consider cheese edible for every daily meal, or, especially, use any form of public transportation. That aside, it seems that us Americans are raised with the idea that the French will eat just about anything and somehow find it a delicacy. This is a respectable feat as the idea of popping a boiled snail onto my tongue to enjoy the succulent flavor and balloon-like quality it bears has seemingly avoided being of any interest to me. Yet, I found myself in the most impossible of conundrums: the family dinner.

I was staying with someone I had spent the past week desperately trying to impress. Initially, I was lacking in that department, but once my personality flourished and my clever quips and impossibly delectable wink followed suit, I was basically a shoo-in for what would turn out to be an unexpectedly amazing relationship. With the foundation of the aforementioned growing sturdier by the day and my willingness to impress strengthening with every instance, I was finally faced with the challenge any American would have ran screaming from.

I walked into the apartment that was full of the smells of hours of cooking, several cheeses, and the wicker furniture that filled the living room. We spent the day traveling through what seemed like a thousand borders and countless toll booths until finally it was time to comfort my tootsies and sit down for what I had been told was a particularly special dinner in my honor. Americans rarely have the chance to sit down and have authentic meals with the French. I don’t know what I had in mind, but nothing really seemed to be what I expected. I was thinking of food I was craving: Chicken, Tacos, Godiva. I wanted everything I hadn’t had in the past week. Yet, when I arrived to the apartment, my incessantly grumbly belly was shivering with nerves because the table was set for much more than the good old fashioned hamburger.

There were four empty plates surrounded by a slew of small bowls filled with an array of good ranging from olives and salami, to some form of paté and seafood from an unknown source. I sat down at the dinner table, engulfed in strictly French conversation that was being projected so as to get the message to the kitchen. No matter what conversation topic was being conversed, I knew there were no french fries that were about to fall on my plate. I reached over to have a quick bite of salami - I love a good salami and I knew this was probably going to be one of my palate cleansers. As I chomped down my single slice of salami, a godsend came. My glass was filled with a gorgeous golden champagne and topped with a floating cherry. This, my friends, would be the lifesaver.

So as food started rolling out from the kitchen, I noticed the array of utensils at my disposal. From the outside in, they started small and intricate, as if they were once used by a dentist or neurosurgeon, and morphed into a more recognizable fork. The first plate that arrived at the dinner table was far beyond what I had ever expected. No hamburger, no chicken, no Taco Bell - Not that I actually believed that these would be served - but Oysters. It seems small and insignificant. “Oh, they’re an aphrodisiac,” some might say. “They’re a delicacy.” But my friends, you must understand: these are not ordinary oysters. They are French Oysters.

I pulled one to my plate. I watched as the three people around me slurped and scraped and oiled and swallowed the giant sea-booger. I had no clue how to approach this, so I followed suit. My cohort to my side began assisting me vocally:

“First, take the fork and scrape off the sides. Good. Now, use your knife and cut where the oyster is connected to the shell. Good. Now, pick it up with the fork and eat it.”

I was completing this edible obstacle course step by step because the last thing I wanted to do was seem unappreciative. I was in impression mode. I smiled the entire dinner even though the conversation sounded like a random array of soft “j” and “s” sounds. I had a sip of champagne whenever I felt the need to give movement - I didn’t want to seem like the odd foreign exchange student at the table, so I let the alcohol loosen the nerves a little whenever possible. I was step by step finishing the prep for my oyster when it was time for the last step - ingestion. But, before my first bite, I was given a word of advice:

“Make sure when you have it in your mouth, you bite down on it very hard and very fast so you can make sure you kill it.”

The look on my face was unrepeatable. Never have I been required to simultaneously eat and kill my food. I expected this meal to be far past the eulogy and well into the separating of the will but I was now becoming this oyster’s John Wilkes Booth. My conundrum still stood. I was in impression mode. This oyster wouldn’t beat me. I was in France and holding live seafood in my hand ready to make a delectable kill. It was almost an adrenaline rush. I slammed the creature into my mouth and bit down as hard as I could. A watery, salty, presumably ungorgeous halfeaten oyster was now becoming a part of my digestive tract. The taste of ocean and a slight bit of sand remained in my mouth until I took a swig of the miracle juice - champagne to the rescue.

I had defeated what I never thought I would be able to. I owned that oyster so hard, I could sense the others shivering in their shells. I took a bite of salami with some cheese to have a bite of food that was both familiar in texture and obviously long dead. The family urged me to continue eating and so, being the brave soul that I am, I continued to eat three additional Oysters. I was not overwhelmed with the feeling one would get on a romantic date or after a box of chocolates and some Shiraz, but I felt accomplished in that I had defeated a new cultures incredibly different meal customs. I was becoming more and more european by the minute. That is exactly what happened next.

The hostess darted to the kitchen with the empty trays that once housed the family of molluscs that would be sadly absent to the Walrus and Carpenter’s next get together. She returned with the most obvious of famous french dishes: Escargot. I had been mentally prepared for a new and exciting dish to come dashing from the kitchen so the sight of snails in front of me wasn’t nearly as heart-stopping as the array of oysters was. The extraction of the creature from its creamy and pesto-y home proved to be the most difficult part of the dining process, getting a sloppy, splattery mess all over my plate, napkin, and hands. I found that these creatures provided an altogether different dining experience. Chewy in texture and potent in flavor, they proved to be a halfway decent way to end the meal - though, after 3 glasses of champagne and excessive concentration, the final dish could have been cow brains and I probably would have been convinced it was delicious.

The evening continued on into desserts, with macarons and the champagne-soaked cherry, and the conversation continued to be buzzing - even though I still haven’t understood a single word. I found that the experience of dining with the French was a pleasant and educational experience. I learned about the eating habits of another culture, the flavors and textures I can stand to encounter, and I also learned that champagne is both a great icebreaker and distraction from something you may not want to see or taste. I couldn’t be more thankful for the dinner and previous and following events of that trip to France, though. It lead to my second and third trips back to visit and experience even more of the culture I find myself identifying with more and more - minus the oyster part, that is.

I may not have found oysters to be the delicacy that they have the reputation of being, but one thing I know is for certain: when in pain - champagne.

x.