French snails. Known as “escargot,” they are a delicacy, rich and a bit squishy, served drenched in butter and garlic.
Approaching the pastry case in a bakery on the Left Bank of Paris, I offered my finest, “Bonjour!” Ready to order something in my hopeful French, the young woman asked, “What would you like?” Set aback by her English, I was flustered and studied the case with a frown. How to choose only one of those delectable, luscious, yummy pastries? Only one?
My eyes settled on a huge spiral of perfectly baked pastry, swirled with a bright green and dark brown filling. “Escargot,” it was labeled. My eyes popped and my stomach turned. Oh no, I thought to myself, oh, no, that’s just wrong.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” I ventured, hoping for reassurance that it wasn’t really snails. “Oh, that,” she reassured me, “pistachios and chocolate.”
And so it was, and I sighed with relief and started to laugh. I laughed so hard I could barely speak to order one. I laughed at myself for thinking the French would do such a thing, at myself for imagining snails in pastry, laughed at the green and brown filling that might have been.
It was the finest pastry I had in France. No, in all of France, Switzerland and Italy.
And what I really loved was the good hard giggle I gave myself. What a lesson: an unexpected visual, an unexpected filling and flavor, all perfect, as French pastries are. Just like life, when we’re open to the unexpected.
