Turkey Day and Tequila

In almost all things food-related France beats American hands down. Thanksgiving is a notable exception. Not only is Thanksgiving a magnificent display of the few dishes Americans know how to cook well, it is also a significant milestone in the lead-up to Christmas. Many stores around Paris have had Christmas decorations up for two weeks now; it just doesn’t seem right. However, manually tearing down premature tinsel seems a bit dramatic, so I opt for a more civil protest—throwing my own Thanksgiving feast and making Europeans eat it.

The invitation is my first attempt at French poetry:

"Thanksgiving sera," un poème de E. Silverstein et S. Shimanoff

Thanksgiving sera
Ce jeudi, ooh la la la
Dinde dinde sur le plat

Samedi chez moi
Festoyez, n’oubliez pas
Tarte à la citrouille.

Translation:

Thanksgiving will be
This Thursday, ooh la la la
Turkey on the plate

Saturday, my place
Celebrate, do not forget
To eat pumpkin pie.

As anyone who has hosted a Thanksgiving knows, it requires considerable advanced preparation. Step one is acquiring my mother’s pumpkin pie recipe and my grandmother’s turkey and stuffing technique. Step two is finding a turkey. I am told that the best way to secure a good turkey is to order one in advance, so I go down to the market near my school on Wednesday to discuss turkey matters with the butcher. They butcher me a beautiful 4.3 kilo turkey, which I pick up Friday afternoon. Step three is waking up at 9am Saturday morning to begin the long haul to dinner. Early on I give up converting English measuring units into metric and am pretty much eyeballing everything. Therefore, the recipes from my mom and grandmother serve mostly as inspiration rather than true recipes. My grandmother had been extremely precise on the turkey-cooking process: 325 degrees for 15 minutes per pound. Much math ensues: 4.3 kilos = 9.5 lbs. x 15 minutes = 2.4 hours at 325 Farenheit = 163 Celsius. After seasoning and stuffing the turkey I turn to my oven to put my calculations into action. I am confronted with a temperature dial numbered 1 through 9. 1 through 9?? Grandma didn’t say anything about a 1 through 9. I am screwed… In my head I envision where 325 might be on an oven dial back home, turn the knob, stick the bird in, and pray. Saul and I then decide to head out for some last minute shopping, leaving the turkey alone to slowly cook on mystery temperature 6.

We head to one of the two American specialty stores in Paris, The Real McCoy, in search of fresh Ocean Spray cranberries. This store creeps me out big time. It has the feel of a 50s bomb shelter, lined with boxed and canned products that will never go bad, ever; mostly things I am glad to not be eating on a regular basis anymore: Doritos, Fluff, Jello, Shake and Bake, Goya Adobo. The prices are astronomical. 10 euro for a bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups, 7 euro for a box of Pop-tarts. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy me some Reese’s and Poptarts back home, but it seems absurd to spend so much money on products so obviously inferior to their French equivalents—chocolate and breakfast pastries that is. We buy the cranberries and flee.

As we head home I’m beginning to think it was a mistake leaving the turkey unsupervised on mystery setting 6. For all I know my flat is burning down. Turns out a Thanksgiving miracle has occurred. Not only is the flat not burning down, the turkey has beautiful golden crispy skin and moist white meat beneath. I might actually pull this Thanksgiving thing off…

Friends show up slowly but surely, in fashionably late French style. My French friend Catherine informs me that the oven settings are clearly meant to be multiplied by 30 degrees Celsius. Thus, setting 6 is equivalent to 180 degrees Celsius, or 356 Farenheit, close enough to Grandma’s recommended 325. ‘Twas a good guess.

I’d like to take a moment to parade my cosmopolitan guest-list before you:

Team US:
-East Coast: me (NY), my friend Henson (NJ, in Paris for the weekend)
-West Coast: Saul (OR), Keith (CA)
-South: Rachel (TX)
-North: Wayne (AK) and Dave (MN?)

Team Europe:
-La France: Fabien, Catherine (co-worker), Claire (Rachel’s roommate)
-Deutschland: Yvonne (my German counterpart at work)
-The United Kingdom: Raj (Fabien’s girlfriend), Emma and Anna

The 14 of us (delightfully split 50/50 US/Europe, no?) devour dinner and move on to devouring the tequila Henson graciously brought duty-free from the States. Europeans tend to savor their liquor; we Americans show them how to quickly down it with salt and lime. Incidentally, Henson had bought nice enough tequila that it was sort of a shame to contaminate it with such collegiate rituals, but old traditions die hard.

Voila, two American traditions imported to Europe in one night: Turkey Day and tequila.