The Unbearable Lightness of Cornichons
North American food selection at Le Grand Epicerie
How difficult could it possibly be to find ‘normal’ pickles in France? The answer is: very.
If you want those enchantingly crisp green wonders as tall as the quart-sized jar they come packed in, you are out of luck. Here, pickles are cornichons—one-bite wonders more akin to cocktail-sized corn-on-the-cob than hearty sandwich companions. And if your mouth waters for bread-and-butter pickles on that sandwich of yours? You jest. The only variation is a jar of cornichons with the occasional cameo by equally tiny onions. Stand aside, celery and carrots—these pickled partners are taking the cocktail party circuit by storm, meeting up with their favorite buffet-table couple, Monsieur Charcuterie and Mademoiselle Pâté.
Where’s the beef?
So, what other kitchen staples are MIA in France? Here are a few of my grievances:
1. Ground turkey meat. I thought the French were paragons of health consciousness. Ground turkey has substantially less saturated fat than ground beef, yet nowhere have I found it adorning a refrigerated case in a local grocery store. Perhaps if we’d introduced the French to the concept of Thanksgiving while they were playing emotional-support friend during that pesky breakup with the Brits back in the late 1700s, they’d embrace the delightful turkey as more than just another white-meat alternative. (This one has dark meat, too!)
2. Dawn Powerwash dish spray. If you haven’t discovered this in the States, it’s high time you did. It’s a product I tuck away when dog sitters come to stay—like some priceless elixir. And no, I don’t feel bad about it. I put out perfectly acceptable dishwashing liquid and have never heard a peep asking, “Where’d you hide that dishwashing spray I know nothing about?”
3. Back to poultry, let’s talk about chicken thighs. I cannot find these for the life of me. Did you know NYT Food has over 175 recipes that call for chicken thighs? Sure, I could buy a whole chicken, but then I’d get two measly thighs and a pile of parts I have no need for at that moment. Plus, I wouldn’t know how to butcher a whole chicken, which sounds very Jeffrey Dahmer-esque if you ask me.
4. Cheddar Cheese. As Americans, we believe in cheese diplomacy. Even a neighborhood bodega back home offers French Roquefort—or at least its crumbly bleu cousin. Yet, here in the land of fromage, sharp Cheddar is treated like contraband. You’ll find Mozzarella sitting pretty in the refrigerated case in all its self-aggrandized iterations—balls, slices, shredded, even low-fat. But, hey, that’s Italian! Cheddar? Persona non grata. Is it the orange hue? Unlikely; they adore Mimolette. Is it the texture? Nope, they’ve got Gouda. All I know is that a French cheeseburger topped with mild Comté will never rival the unapologetic assertiveness of a proper slice of Cheddar.
Finding a Taste of Home
My favorite grocery store in Paris is La Grande Épicerie. It kind of says it all that Louis Vuitton owns the two outlets. But honestly, their prices are no worse than Whole Foods compared to Safeway back home.
They have a dedicated “international” section, though the U.S. area was recently combined with Mexico and Canada (whose sole contribution appears to be a polite two-story display of maple syrup) to form a North American conglomerate. Oh, if only we were that compatible politically.
I suspect Americans caused the merger by complaining that the U.S. was poorly showcased. I get it—there’s an entire shelf paying homage to marshmallow cream, Fluff. I had never even heard of Fluff! Not exactly our culinary Mona Lisa. But peanut butter? Oh, peanut butter received the red-carpet treatment—not just one shelf but half of a second and it’s all to honor both creamy and chunky. Why nothing says “civilized society” like the freedom to choose your preferred peanut butter texture.
Then there’s Mexico, who surely can’t be thrilled being represented primarily by chips and salsa. “We’re so much more than what your taste-testers snacked on while drinking margaritas at the Acapulco Hilton. Ever heard of Mole?” But hey, at least they don’t have to explain away pre-packaged convenience products with half-lives longer than the pyramids—like our aluminum-clad JiffyPop or boxes of Mac&Cheese mix.
A Grand Idea
Picture this - I call it Le Grand Yankee Royale: A lean, herb-crusted ground turkey patty, topped not with bacon, but with a crispy, golden-fried, boneless chicken thigh. We will smother this poultry tower in a molten blanket of sharp orange Cheddar cheese, and finally, crown the creation with a spear—not a nub—of a crunchy, quart-jar-sized dill pickle.
It would confuse the locals. It might offend the purists. But after we have devoured this greasiest of masterpieces, when the plates are slick with orange cheese and poultry juices? That is when I will unveil the true American magic trick. I will pull the trigger on my smuggled bottle of Dawn Powerwash to scrub away the evidence of a crime this delicious.
Bon appetit, and pass the real pickle.
LE GRAND YANKEE ROYALE
The Payload:
1 Ground Turkey Patty: Grill until there is no gobbling.
1 Boneless Chicken Thigh: Dredged, fried golden-brown. The crispier, the better.
2 Slices Sharp Cheddar Cheese: The aggressively orange kind that doesn't understand subtlety. Melt over both meats.
The Pickle Spear: One (1) crunch-warranted dill pickle, quart-jar size. No cornichons need apply.
The Slather: A generous, unapologetic layer of Mayonnaise (preferably Hellmann's imported via suitcase).
Please note: The abovementioned ingredients are currently unavailable in the 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th and 15th Arrondissements.
Assembly Instructions:
Take a toasted brioche bun (the only French concession).
Coat the bottom bun with enough Mayonnaise to waterproof it.
Place the cooked turkey patty on the bun.
Add a slice of Cheddar.
Put Chicken Thigh on top.
Add another layer of Cheddar.
Crown with the Pickle Spear.
Top bun on. Squish. Eat (if done so while standing over the sink there are no calories, trust me).
Have Dawn Powerwash on standby for immediate decontamination.