Fruit Phobia!

The European Enemy!

Everyone asks how has the food been at the monastery.  In all honesty all the meals have been more than good.  There were only two rough ones over the past month and they both had to do with anchovies.  Breakfast is always coffee, bread, butter and jam.  The French bread is to die for.  (I'll have to talk about that on its own in a future posting.)  But I have been limiting myself to just coffee since the other meals are so good as well as to prepare me for my travels.

The larger meal is at midday:  about 1:30PM.  It has an appetizer, meat vegetable, salad and dessert.  It’s pretty substantial.  The evening meal is soup, and some type of casserole or quiche and dessert.  As I mentioned before, the food is so much better than I remember.

The only problem is very often there is fruit for dessert.  I know what you are thinking – this guy wants cake!  No, the problem is not the fruit.   In fact, I’ll often take a piece back to my room.  The problem is that in France, as in most European countries, they eat fruit with a knife and fork.  And I just don’t have that gift.

It all began way back in Christmastime of 1990.  I was a seminarian traveling with Father Fonti (who was yet to be ordained) and we went to visit in Salamanca, Spain a religious brother (in the Legionaries of Christ) from my home parish of Holy Innocents.  The three of us had attended Cathedral Prep, Brooklyn, at the same time.  In the course of our stay there, Joe and I and Br. Jose were invited to have a meal at the rector’s table.  In the course of the meal Father Rector graciously offered me some fruit.  I declined since I saw everyone eating their fruit with a knife and fork.  When I declined, Father Fonti leaned over jabbed me in the ribs and forcefully informed me:  “The rector just offered you his orange, take it!”

Well, I took it.  A decision only rivaled by Adam’s.  I started to hack at what began as a pretty good-sized orange.  Juice was squirting everywhere.  The orange which was a lot smarter than I was, tried several times to escape in vain; jumping this way or that across my plate or table.  In the end, I hacked this poor orange to the size of a large bullion cube before the meal ended.  On that day I swore I would never eat fruit again in Europe even if it were offered by the pope or the queen of England.

So other than my fear of fruit, the food has been fabulous here.