Finding the Perfect Meal in a French Cafe (final draft)

            Freedom tastes like a steaming hot plate of fresh salmon with a crispy caramelized top, washed down with a cool glass of Orangina.  It feels like a calming breeze blowing away the beads of sweat on your forehead and plush, cushioned seats to rest your tired legs on after a day of travel.  Freedom sounds like the buzz of foreign accents and the clash of plates meeting a table.  It smells like the urban scent of a busy city street and the culmination of several meals wafting together to create an aromatic blend of flavors and spices.

            It was the summer after my junior year of high school.  I looked up at the hot Parisian sun that was melting my friends and me as we scrambled to find a café during our hour-long lunch break.  We had just completed a tour of Notre Dame and observing all of the delicate architecture had made us famished.  We squeezed our way through the streets of Paris that were packed as tightly as a too small pair of jeans.  The café had to meet three basic requirements: it had to be reasonably priced, large enough to accommodate eight people, and it had to be close because I really had to use the bathroom.

            The walls of the café were covered in floating fabrics that shimmied in the wind.  Although there wasn’t much separating the inside and outside of the building, it was incredibly dim.  I relaxed my tired legs on a comfortable seat between my friends Nolan and Deanna.   The shade of the café combined with the openness of the layout created the perfect warm, breezy temperature to relieve us from the hot August sun.  It was our fourth day on the trip and we all were drunk off the intoxicating concoction of exhaustion mixed with thrill.  Paris was a drug in it of itself.

            The feeling of traveling in a foreign country for the first time is one that is impossible to predict.  Growing up I had gone as far as Florida but that had been the extent of my voyages.  The same could be said for my parents.  Not that that was a bad way to live.  I was always content in the comfortable safe haven that is Sterling Heights, Michigan.  I never knew how much I wanted more until I received it.  Going as far as Europe seemed like a far off dream that would only happen once I was old and rich.  But when my principle announced he was planning a trip to France and Italy and my parents said I could go on the condition that I got a job and paid for part of my trip, this far off dream became my imminent reality.  Not only would I be spending two weeks on another continent, I was going with seven of my closest friends.  Suddenly the once comforting lines that divided Sterling Heights from the rest of the world made me claustrophobic.

            I skimmed the short menu as the server went around taking everyone’s orders.  I quickly decided on the salmon with a side of rice and a bottle of Orangina: a carbonated orange drink that tastes like a thirst quenching glass of orange flavored Pop Rocks.  In France, people go out to eat and take their time enjoying the meal not only for wonderful food but also for the ritualistic act of coming together and sharing the experience.  So instead of acting on my American impulses and complaining that it took thirty minutes for my salmon to come to the table, I sat back and slowly enjoyed my delicious and refreshing Orangina while laughing with my friends.  The majority of the conversation consisted of my friend Matt making fun of my poor decision to only bring a pair of Crocs (not the stereotypical ones, they were at least disguised to look like flats) that had begun to shrink up and blister me due to excessive use and the strong summer heat.  When my food did finally arrive I had forgotten I had been waiting for it in the first place.  I hadn’t been expecting much from the meal, just something to fill me up.

            It was the best thing I had ever tasted.  The fish was tender and juicy with a caramelized top that gave the perfect crunch so that when you bit into it, it was like every texture one could hope for in food was condensed into this one little bite.  The rice was a perfect compliment to the salmon: just simple enough that the meal was not overwhelming.  It brought out the saltiness of the salmon that exquisitely complimented its sweet top layer.  I couldn’t get enough of it.  There is something about the perfect meal that brings out your inner animal.  It kept telling me to devour the caramelized treasure that lie before me and lick the plate clean.  But with every ounce of restraint I possessed, I instead slowly savored every sweet, juicy, salty, crunchy bite and washed it down with the contained sunshine that is Orangina.

            My friends’ amusing chatter began to buzz into the background as I treasured my meal and began to reflect on where I was.  The vacation had been so busy up to this point the immensity of what I was doing did not hit me until that moment.  I thought about what I would be doing now if I were at home.  I’d probably be sitting on the deck of my pool, sipping on some iced tea and eating a ham and cheese sandwich with my family.  It was a nice image.  Comfortable.  I had never thought I’d want anything different.  But the taste of that succulent salmon brought me back into the present and reminded me that there was something much better than comfortable.  Because after all, it really wasn’t the salmon or the Orangina that had made that meal great.  Looking back I see that the salmon could never have been that perfect.  I have had Orangina plenty of times in my life and never had it tasted as good as it did in that moment.  The thing is, I wasn’t just eating this meal.  As much as I tasted that salmon on my tongue, I was feeling the sweat from a long day of wandering the streets of Paris glide down my back.  I was listening to my best friends talk about the stained glass windows of Notre Dame that were so beautiful you wanted to cry.  I was watching Parisians walking past the open spaces of the very first real café I had ever eaten in.  I tasted more than a perfectly prepared fish; I was tasting freedom for the first time.  And let me tell you, it tastes damn good.