Steamed snails

Looking at my lunch today, some snails with a delicious sauce, I remembered my first week of life in Paris. A group of French people took me out to eat to celebrate something; I don't remember the event very well, but I do remember my mistake clearly. It was a somewhat peculiar place, a butcher shop that also had tables for some diners, one of those joints that only locals know.

I wanted to show off a bit and told the butcher, "Surprise me, please. I would like the most French thing you can think of." And of course, the man didn't hold back; he took a transparent plate, added chopped onions, some herbs, two raw eggs, a quarter kilogram of raw ground meat, salt, and pepper. In my head, I thought, "Surely, this will go in the oven, and something delicious will come out." But the butcher placed the cold plate along with a fork on the table and said, "Bon appétit!"

I had never suffered so much in front of a plate of food. By the third bite, a friend finished me off, saying, "I didn't know you liked horse meat." My sorrows turned into laughter from my friends; it was very obvious that I just wanted to escape. I went straight to coffee, and for three whole days, I couldn't see any food because of that terrible impression.

Over the years, my stomach got used to the delights of these lands. In the end, food is nothing more than a cultural construction that gradually enters us. Still, I remembered a phrase that a teacher repeated incessantly: "We are what we eat." I wish I could have replied, "And if we don't eat, what are we?"