The cheese. Oh god, the cheese.
Not only were an extreme variety of high-quality cheeses inexpensive, they were easily found everywhere, whether at the rare grocery store or the much more common fromagerie. If you went to a French person's house, there was guaranteed to be a cheese course, which I always looked forward to with pleasure, even if I acted like a nonchalant asshole accustomed to luxurious cheese and said pretentious things like "Ah, this wine it makes a fine pairing." The American in me, used to Kraft-level, transfat-infested cheese was "teehee!"-ing like a three year old and fighting the temptation to stuff some in my fake Prada bag.
There was the gruyere which covered the croque monsieurs, the emmental (actually from Switzerland, but shhhhh) grated into a big pile and thrown into scrambled eggs in the morning, or the heavenly chèvre chaud, or hot goat cheese, sometimes lightly fried, always heavenly, and completely unlike Greek or American feta cheese for reasons I'm powerless to describe as I salivate.
|A delicious chevre salad I had in Amboise, which I will never forget. :(|
I'm powerless to do anything but prowl the fine cheese aisles of Whole Foods in search of overpriced French import cheese to slake my proverbial cheese-thirst. (In retrospect, I could have just said hunger, to simply things, but for some reason I really felt a need for that metaphor.) Until I find my chèvre chaud substitute, I'll be dipping my strawberries in Nutella, pathetically longing for the food in my pictures, hoping that each crepe I cook and consume will banish some of my cheese-nostalgia away.