Monsieur, can you bring my husband a hamburger?

I married a good man. He's so wholesome, it's like he grew from a tree and was just plucked right off the branch. He's honest, ethical, kind. He calls to cancel dinner reservations when we make other plans. He frequently gives blood because he feels its his civic duty. My blood comes out only by accident.

When we travel, he sends me an itinerary in advance to ensure we see everything of importance and are armed with sufficient knowledge to get us from A to B. He's a much more curious, interested person than I am, always looking toward our next experience and constantly hungry to learn something new. I'm a bit lazier about life and will go along for the ride if the food is tasty, the hotel toiletries are good enough to steal, and the humidity isn't such that will make my hair curl.

On our recent trip to Paris, we took a less prepared approach. Life was hectic and it was all we could do to get on the plane, pop a few sleep helpers and pray we made it over the ocean. We arrived, grabbed a couple croque monsieurs and sat in the grass cramming through a city guide to figure it all out. In the end, we strolled through beautiful gardens and vibrant city streets and stood in front of gorgeous cathedrals and monuments, grinning for the camera. It was a relaxing, wonderful experience. However, more careful preparation certainly could have gone into our dining plans.

Since no one eats until what feels like midnight in Paris, we caught on quickly that our usual American appetite, one that kicks in at 6pm, needed to be held off a bit. I mean, I'm worldly and fabulous...I can wait until midnight to eat dinner. My stomach was eating itself and I couldn't form sentences and I shook from the 7 cafe au laits I had to ward off the hunger, but I looked cool. And French.

Our solution one night was to hang up our hunger and sit at a wine bar before dinner, in hopes they would offer us a block of cheese. After a few hours, we became too drunk lazy to move to a new location, and decided to have a look at the menu. I barely passed studied about 4 years of French, so my liquid confidence kicked in and I chose some lovely dishes for the husband and myself. Strongly recommended by the waiter, I ordered beef carpaccio, foie gras, potatoes and greens with a little olive oil. Good stuff, right?

Let me just preface it with this: Before I met him, my husband ate a Potbelly's sandwich every single night after work. He's adventurous, but he'd rather eat one or both of his shoes than what I ordered for him that night. However, true to form, he put aside his own desire to vomit on the plate, and ate 3/4 of the dish by closing his eyes and rapidly tapping his foot while chewing each piece until he could swallow it. See, he was concerned that the waiter would be insulted. He's just that good inside.

Below, our lovely, sometimes raw, before dinner-dinner, brought to you by the unethical treatment of animals.


As kind as my husband was to the waiter, I don't think he was very happy with me. Not sure if it was too much wine but when I glanced at his hand, he appeared to have removed his wedding band.

Even in a foreign country, I can screw up dinner.