The Imaginary Thanksgiving Dinner
In 1940, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas fled Paris ahead of the Germans. They waited out the war in the French countryside, rolling bandages and existing on meager rations like everyone else. To stave off hunger and boredom, they amused themselves by fantasizing elaborate meals composed of culinary components that were nowhere to be had in occupied France. Together, they carefully selected the recipes and imagined in detail the shopping, cooking, and eating. Years later, they both wrote of the satisfaction obtained from these virtual meals.
Forced deprivation aside, I suppose their food fantasies were not terribly different from what we do when we eat a lowfat yogurt while watching Martha or Emeril whip up something toothsome on TV, or when we leaf through an elaborately illustrated cookbook or food magazine, reading recipes that we have no intention of cooking.
It’s also not so different from my recent experience in Paris over the Thanksgiving holiday. It isn’t as if Thanksgiving is nonexistent there; there are enough American expats to create a small demand for holiday turkeys, and one or two obscure restaurants actually serve a Thanksgiving dinner of sorts. And if you want, you can watch snippets of the Macy’s parade on CNN Europe. However, my tiny hotel room was not exactly conducive to preparing an elaborate repast, so I resolved to follow Alice and Gertrude’s example — I would just imagine my Thanksgiving dinner this year.
I started my quest at the shop actually named Thanksgiving, a toney Right-Bank purveyor that’s created a solid niche by catering to homesick Yankee palates. Amidst all manner of exorbitantly priced prepared-food products from the States (from Pop-Tarts to refried beans to Campbell’s tomato soup), I gazed at the special displays for the compleat American Fifties holiday feast — boxes of Stove-Top stuffing, canned pumpkin and cranberry sauce, pre-baked pie crusts, bags of marshmallows for the candied yams. While I sympathized (sort of) with my compatriots who were throwing stuff in their baskets with wild abandon, I knew I could do better in the City of Light (and of fabulous food).
So I moved on to the Marché Auguste Blanqui, one of the largest and most interesting of Paris’ numerous neighborhood open-air markets. As I cruised the crowded and noisy stalls, my heart gladdened at the sight of the lovingly constructed displays of iced seafood smelling of the ocean, the panoply of dewy winter produce, the beautiful cuts of meat, and the vast displays of unpasteurized cheeses and tempting traiteur (prepared dishes).
I figured I was in good company when I overheard two sleekly elegant ladies interrupt their animated French conversation, one abruptly asking in English, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving tonight?” The other answered, “Oh, I’m in charge of the mincemeat pies.”
Although the market displays offered enough choices to construct 20 different Thanksgiving dinners, my menu fell quickly into place. My imaginary guests would begin with a minerally Chablis and briny fines claires oysters, brought straight to market from Arcachon. Next, accompanied by Pinot Noir, we would dine on a roast pheasant stuffed with Normandy apples and onions and basted in Calvados. We’d have a sauté of wild mushrooms, tiny rose-colored turnips, and Brussels sprouts, accompanied by Auvergne-style potatoes gratineéd with crème fraiche and bits of bacon and truffle. Then, after a peppery green salad of mche, watercress, and endive, we’d finish with one of those almost-too-beautiful-to-eat fruit tarts than can be found in every neighborhood patisserie.
Returning to my hotel, I passed Petrossian, that exalted purveyor of caviar from the Caspian Sea. On the spot, I decided to add a preliminary amuse bouche of beluga to my feast. Just a small tin, why not? In fantasies, money is no object.
By the time I reached my little room, my virtual Thanksgiving meal had been mentally cooked, eaten, and thoroughly enjoyed. Later in the day, I called my family in Texas to wish them a happy holiday. I asked my mother to describe their dinner, the same one I had eaten regularly since babyhood. I could taste it over the telephone.
This article appears in December 21 • 2001.
