If you want to live in France, you need to get used to people speaking their mind.
Years ago when I was young and supple, I’d eat whatever I could get my hands on. And working in a restaurant, well, let’s just say that’s not the best food to eat on a long-term basis.
But I know all-too well about that because I was one of them. I’d cram foie gras, duck cracklings, and butter-roasted anything in my gullet whenever I wanted. And byy the time my shift was done, I’d head home, twist open a jar or salsa, rip open a bag of tortilla chips, and watch a few re-runs of unchallenging fare, like three episodes of Fantasy Island back-to-back, at 2am on the sofa, glued to the television, wondering at how many times they could work Barbie Benton into an episode while your brain turned to mush.
For a while, I worked in an Asian restaurant. People have this image of Asian cuisine as “healthy”, which some of it is. But without pointing fingers, a lot of it is deep-fried or cooked in gobs of chicken or pork fat. And peanut sauce? Don’t even get me started on what’s in that evil destroyer of waistlines. But when a cook hands you a platter of deep-fried shrimp toasts, who am I to refuse?
So when I left the restaurant business, I had a petit paunch. It wasn’t terrible, but was enough so that when I was heading to Mexico on vacation, I had to get rid of it tout de suite.