I have to give it to marketing experts. They know what consumers will buy and why they will buy it.
This week as I passed the dairy case, I paused like a woman under a spell, opened a refrigerator door and removed a carton of butter substitute called "Le Thin Cow."There was a picture of a large bovine with a measuring tape around her middle. I never questioned why a cow would want to lose inches or why I aspired to look like someone who grazed all day long. I bought it because I knew in my heart it was French.
The French are amazing people. A few years ago, they had Americans paying big bucks for a small bottle of water. People would be sitting at a table in front of a glass of water with a lemon floating in it and ask the waiter, "Please bring me a Perrier with a twist." Americans will buy anything that sounds like they have a head cold when they pronounce it.
Grey Poupon came upon the scene when two eccentric millionaires who couldn't stop for lunch pulled up next to one another in their luxury cars and shared their mustard. At that point, Americans couldn't think of a life without it.
There is an ongoing struggle between the makers of biscuits, brown-and-serve rolls, sourdough loaves, bread sticks, pita bread and bagels to creep into the hearts and stomachs of Americans. But given a choice, the discerning diner will purse his lips and force the word "croissant" through his nose.
I have never been in a French restaurant where waiters have not corrected the French of the customer. It's automatic. As if we order caviar, foie gras and crepes every day.
A few years ago when I was faced with either changing the shelf paper or having something better to do, I decided to take a French cooking course. I baked brioche and stuffed escargots in little shells. One night I set a bowl on the table and my husband asked, "What is it?"
"It's puree de pois casses."
"It looks like baby food."
"It's pureed peas . . . French style."
The recipe is filed in a folder marked, "Too old to chew food."
I will continue to be a snob about French cookery. I can't help it. They've conditioned me. The other night at a restaurant, I said, "I'll have a lemon sorbet."
The waiter said, "We have apple pie, Black Forest cake, fresh fruit, eight flavors of ice cream, flan and strawberry torte, but no sorbet."
"Get a rope!" I said.