Finding the Perfect Meal in a French Cafe (Workshop Rough 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 cool 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 sun that was melting my friends and me as we scrambled to find a café during our hour-long lunch break.  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 for our hour-long break from the chaos of trying to fit as many touristy activities into one vacation as possible.  It was our fourth day on the trip and we all were drunk off the intoxicating concoction of exhaustion mixed with thrill.

            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.  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 would planning a trip to France and Italy and my parents said I could go if 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.  It was more than I ever thought I could possibly hope for.

            I skimmed the short menu as the server went around taking everyone’s orders.  I quickly decided on the salmon 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.  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, the texture was indescribable.  I had a flashback to watching Jimmy Neutron as a young girl; the episode where he is able to create the perfect piece of candy, somehow combining textures and flavors perfectly to create a candy so good the people of Retroville became addicted. That is what this salmon tasted like.  It was just salty enough to exquisitely compliment the 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.

            Now whenever I am asked what my favorite meal I’ve ever had is I describe that moment.  But the more I think about it, the more I realize it is all a lie.  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 mind-bogglingly amazing adventures we had just experienced.  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.