CUISINE BISTRO

When the escargoing gets tough... by Moira Hodgson

AROUND THE FAIR

We were at the Bistro Liechtenstein late one night when Cynthia astonished us by confessing that she had never eaten snails.

"It's not that I have anything against them," she said. "But there's always been something else on the menu I've wanted more."

"I'm going to have oysters in champagne," said Philip, while John tried to make up his mind between baked chevre and lettuce salad or chicken liver terrine with onion marmalade.

"Have you tried the boudin de fruits de mer?" asked Cynthia. "It's seafood sausage wrapped in spinach."

"It's delicious," I said. "But I think you should try the snails."

I had been introduced to snails shortly after my fourteenth birthday. The occasion was a Sunday lunch party given by French friends of my parents. They took us to their favorite bistro. The owner, a Breton, was the chef, and his wife waited on tables. It was a small place; the dingy walls were decorated with posters of Paris and drawings and paintings by Rouault, Picasso, and Cocteau. Near the bar there was a large tank of tropical fish which interested my father, who had a tank of his own at home. We were allowed to keep fish and tortoises because "they don't smell and they don't make a beastly noise."

I was resentful at being seated at the children's table, despite the fact that it had a paper roll-on tablecloth upon which we were able to draw. Next to me was a small and exceedingly precocious French boy about six years old called Hubert. When the wine was poured the children's glasses were topped up with water, but in deference to my years the patron's wife gave me mine neat.

For the first course she served us a garlicky pate, which I enjoyed. Hubert watched me intently as I ate, his eyes traveling back and forth from my plate to my mouth. Then snails arrived: six slugs with shells on. I looked toward my parents for help, but they were busy talking.

I took the largest piece of bread I could fit into my mouth, manipulated the sinister little piece of dark rubber into the doughy middle, and, barely chewing, swallowed it down with a swig of wine. I dispatched only one of my snails this way before I gave up and disgorged the rest discreetly one at a time into my napkin. Hubert, however, ate his with relish, keeping his eyes on me all the while.

"Papa/" he shouted suddenly.

I gave him a murderous look, which only encouraged him further.

"Papa/" He persisted, in his shrill, piping voice. "Regarde/"

The grown-ups turned. Hubert pointed to my wineglass. "True boit son vin sans eau/"

At least Hubert was admonished for calling me "true." But he triumphed anyway. My face was so red that they thought it was the wine, and I was made to water the next glass.

As I told the story I noticed that Cynthia's attention was diverted by a scene at the adjacent table, where a Frenchman of a certain age was entertaining a much younger American woman. He kept murmuring things to her and kissing her hand. All of a sudden the woman sprang from her seat and, clutching her handbag to her bosom, made for the exit. Then she turned on him and shouted in a broad American accent, "Je voudrais vous avoir savoir"—she paused dramatically for breath—"que je ne suis pas la sorte de fille que vous pouvez jouer autour avec!" She disappeared through the front door and her escort bounded after her.

At that moment the waiter arrived with our main courses. We had ordered duck with turnips and raspberry vinegar sauce, grilled salmon garnished with enoki mushrooms, and beignets of lotte. But John was having cassoulet. "It's the only old-fashioned dish on the menu!"

"What do you expect?" I asked. "Peak time in the old bistros was lunch. But people eating between ten and two at night, unless they have cast-iron stomachs like you, want something light."

I knew. I had worked for a couple of months in a bistro down a small side street off New Bond Street in London. Most of the customers were lunchtime regulars who ordered steak and pommes frites. There was the man whose table was always kept for him by the window, where he often attracted a small crowd, for he wore a live cobra around his neck. Local shopkeepers and businessmen came every day to eat but mainly to flirt with us waitresses, who were all very young.

The kitchen was run by a tyrannical German named Wilfred who had the temper and physique of an ape. He was not a great cook. The only reliable item that emerged from his kitchen was steak. But American tourists who ventured in were shocked by the size of our filets mignons. "If that's a steak, it must have come from a mouse!" The most popular hors d'oeuvre was angels on horseback (oysters wrapped in bacon). They were expensive—and they were frozen.

One evening a group of Englishmen came in and ordered their usual: well-done steaks "and a nice bottle of sweet sauternes." Their waitress, Ruth, was an Australian so overweight that her stockings hissed as her thighs rubbed against each other when she walked. But she was the fastest worker in the place.

One day the sauternes group ordered a second bottle of wine, and Ruth, speeding back, had mixed up the order and uncorked a bottle of rose.

"But this wine is pink!" complained the customer.

Ruth didn't flinch. "Of course," she said. "It's a different year."

Four French businessmen in crewcuts used to come there to lunch every day. The first time I served them they ordered salads and steaks "a la minute.'''' Boni, the Spanish salad maker, would spend hours in the kitchen making elaborate, beautifully arranged salads, but he didn't always manage to divest the lettuce leaves of all foreign material. After I had served their meal, one of the Frenchmen hailed me angrily.

"Look!" He pointed to his salad plate. There, resting on a slice of tomato, was a large, juicy slug. I whisked it away and returned with another salad. A couple of minutes later he called me again. Another slug was playfully waving its horns from under a leaf of lettuce. "Oh, dear," I said, trying to choke back my laughter. "Ce sont des escargots anglais/"

When Cynthia's snails arrived they were in a garlic cream sauce with tiny croutons—no shells. She immediately reached for the bread.

"Without their shells they look like chopped-up worms," she said.

Some friends who were fond of practical jokes once brought me a pound of rubber worms from a fishing tackle shop upstate. The worms were dark brown, thick and shiny with some sort of grease that is tempting to fish. They looked so real they seemed to wriggle before your eyes. We had invited someone who fancied himself a food connoisseur to join us for dinner, and while everyone was having drinks, I arranged the worms on a serving dish, surrounded them with quartered lemons, and sprinkled them with parsley. When I passed them around the table I explained that they had just been flown in from France. "Anguillettes de terre—little earth eels—they are called," I said. "You've probably had them in bistros in the South. I think they're much nicer than snails."

"Ah, yes..." said the connoisseur, looking thoughtful. "I haven't seen these for years.. . "

I picked up one of the worms with my fingers, squeezed some lemon juice on the end, and then dexterously twirled it from a height into my mouth. The rubber was so thick you couldn't even bite through it. With the worm lodged in my cheek I made for the kitchen as if to attend to the next course.

When I returned, my friends who were in on the joke were choking with suppressed laughter. The connoisseur had a familiar look on his face: the look I must have had on mine the first time I ate snails. It was the same expression that was now on Cynthia's face.

"If you don't like them, I'll eat them," said Philip.

"No," said Cynthia. "Actually they're quite nice. They taste just like chicken."