Sunday, November 06, 2005
Kalim, the butcher
My butcher's name is Kalim.
Not Costco, not Superstore. I have my very own butcher, and his name is Kalim.
Allow me to explain. It's a long story.
First, we must understand that this week I've undergone a very drastic change. I'm not talking about me getting my carte de sejour...this is a preoccupation of the old Angelica. The gal who you once knew is now gone. France has allowed me to blossom into someone who even my own mother wouldn't recognize. Get ready for it...
People, I have learned how to cook*.
Well, sort of. Last week, I took it upon myself to skool my German roomies in the ways of the Canadian-Chinese-Filipinos out there (Kat, where are you?).
Why? Because all too often I'd get wide-eyed incredulous stares as I asked ignorantly, "Really? You mix banana and cherry juice together?" or "Oh my god, I can't believe you just ate that raw ground meat." Obviously, I had a lot to learn when it came to food and Germans.
Anyway, Friday, comme d'habitude, would be our dinner party, and I volunteered to faire la cuisine for the evening. On the big day after school, I wandered around my block looking for a boucherie. I'd be making Lumpia Shanghai, my favourite meat-filled spring roll of deep-fried goodness. A small shop with a red and white "Boucherie" sign caught my eye, and I sauntered in hesitantly. A young, 20-something dude with brown curly hair grinned at me from behind the counter.
Oh crap, quick, what the hell is ground beef in French?
Boucher: "Bonjour!"
Moi: "Bonjour, je pourrais avoir...euh..."
I looked around at the vast array of red slabs neatly arranged behind a glass, and made vague wrist-circle gestures.
Boucher: "Hmm, du porc?"
Moi: "Non, le....?"
Boucher: "Boeuf?"
Moi: "Ah ouiouioui, du boeuf."
Boucher: "Haché?"
Moi: "Oui voila :D"
Thank god he can read my mind.
We made pleasant conversation (yay for knowing how to talk about myself in French) as he ground it up in the machine and tallied up my total.
Boucher: "C'est 8,10 euros."
Moi: "Je peux utiliser ma carte bleu?"
Boucher: "Oui vas-y."
I slide my interac card into their machine and wait. And wait. And wait...Hmm... I look searchingly up at him as we realize it wasn't working. Crap, t-minus 2.5 hours to the dinner, and my main ingredient has become another casualty of my banking misfortunes (more about that later). I sigh, looking at my empty wallet and start to hand back the bag 'o beef.
Boucher: "Mais tu peux revenir plus tard pour le payer." (Nah, just come back and pay for it later.)
Moi: *blink* "Vraiment?" (Really?)
Okay, what is going on? He was really going to let me walk out of there without paying?
Boucher: "Ouioui, je fais confiance en toi. Et si tu n'as pas le temps ce soir, reviens demain." (Yeah! I trust you. And if you don't have time tonight, just come back tomorrow.)
Moi: *still standing there dumbfounded, holding the meat bag* "Wow. Merci!"
And I left, amazed. Amazed, but with a light heart. So there *is* still some good in the world. And that makes me smile.
---
*one filipino dish
Not Costco, not Superstore. I have my very own butcher, and his name is Kalim.
Allow me to explain. It's a long story.
First, we must understand that this week I've undergone a very drastic change. I'm not talking about me getting my carte de sejour...this is a preoccupation of the old Angelica. The gal who you once knew is now gone. France has allowed me to blossom into someone who even my own mother wouldn't recognize. Get ready for it...
People, I have learned how to cook*.
Well, sort of. Last week, I took it upon myself to skool my German roomies in the ways of the Canadian-Chinese-Filipinos out there (Kat, where are you?).
Why? Because all too often I'd get wide-eyed incredulous stares as I asked ignorantly, "Really? You mix banana and cherry juice together?" or "Oh my god, I can't believe you just ate that raw ground meat." Obviously, I had a lot to learn when it came to food and Germans.
Anyway, Friday, comme d'habitude, would be our dinner party, and I volunteered to faire la cuisine for the evening. On the big day after school, I wandered around my block looking for a boucherie. I'd be making Lumpia Shanghai, my favourite meat-filled spring roll of deep-fried goodness. A small shop with a red and white "Boucherie" sign caught my eye, and I sauntered in hesitantly. A young, 20-something dude with brown curly hair grinned at me from behind the counter.
Oh crap, quick, what the hell is ground beef in French?
Boucher: "Bonjour!"
Moi: "Bonjour, je pourrais avoir...euh..."
I looked around at the vast array of red slabs neatly arranged behind a glass, and made vague wrist-circle gestures.
Boucher: "Hmm, du porc?"
Moi: "Non, le....?"
Boucher: "Boeuf?"
Moi: "Ah ouiouioui, du boeuf."
Boucher: "Haché?"
Moi: "Oui voila :D"
Thank god he can read my mind.
We made pleasant conversation (yay for knowing how to talk about myself in French) as he ground it up in the machine and tallied up my total.
Boucher: "C'est 8,10 euros."
Moi: "Je peux utiliser ma carte bleu?"
Boucher: "Oui vas-y."
I slide my interac card into their machine and wait. And wait. And wait...Hmm... I look searchingly up at him as we realize it wasn't working. Crap, t-minus 2.5 hours to the dinner, and my main ingredient has become another casualty of my banking misfortunes (more about that later). I sigh, looking at my empty wallet and start to hand back the bag 'o beef.
Boucher: "Mais tu peux revenir plus tard pour le payer." (Nah, just come back and pay for it later.)
Moi: *blink* "Vraiment?" (Really?)
Okay, what is going on? He was really going to let me walk out of there without paying?
Boucher: "Ouioui, je fais confiance en toi. Et si tu n'as pas le temps ce soir, reviens demain." (Yeah! I trust you. And if you don't have time tonight, just come back tomorrow.)
Moi: *still standing there dumbfounded, holding the meat bag* "Wow. Merci!"
And I left, amazed. Amazed, but with a light heart. So there *is* still some good in the world. And that makes me smile.
---
*one filipino dish
# posted by Unknown @ 12:05 PM 
Comments:
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> Kat, where are you?
She's here, and quite pleased to have made the blog.
Could someone else explain what it means when the anonymous young man is randomly nice to her?
She's here, and quite pleased to have made the blog.
Could someone else explain what it means when the anonymous young man is randomly nice to her?
# posted by 
: 10:21 PM
: 10:21 PM
"Could someone else explain what it means when the anonymous young man is randomly nice to her?"
If you want to be a cynic, you say he's hitting on her and at some point will expect sex.
If you want to be an optimist, you say he's one of the rare nice people in the world.
If you want to be paranoid, you say he's begun a plan to stalk her.
Maybe it's a combo of the 3. He obviously isn't a very good businessman. :)
If you want to be a cynic, you say he's hitting on her and at some point will expect sex.
If you want to be an optimist, you say he's one of the rare nice people in the world.
If you want to be paranoid, you say he's begun a plan to stalk her.
Maybe it's a combo of the 3. He obviously isn't a very good businessman. :)
# posted by : 11:54 AM
: 11:54 AM
Maybe he's afraid that if he's not nice to everyone, someone will come at night and burn his store down - this unfortunately seems to be the custom elsewhere in France these days :P
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# posted by : 4:32 PM
: 4:32 PM << Home
