Last Thursday, Kristina came over for lunch. About halfway through, we thought that it might be fun to bring Aston, her Jack Russell who’s madly in love with our own little jailbait, into the mix. And as the two of them cavorted wildly through the apartment (an odd mix of playing, biting, and flirting that was really stunningly passionate), Kristina took that breath that you take when you’ve made a decision.
“My friend is leaving for Argentina soon, and she is coming for lunch, and our Chinese friend too, tomorrow. And maybe you could come?”
It felt like passing a test. Is all.
And even more so when I got there with my pie (“we bring something, and we share,” said her follow-up text message), and walked into the packed apartment. Kristina and her boyfriend share a lovely one-bedroom just up the street from us–spacious and charming–but six people and three dogs fill it nicely to capacity.
Aston immediately recommenced his seduction of Jolie, who was noticeably less interested this time, while the Czech woman’s four-month-old retriever (I so did not get any names) growled jealously and then went back to sleep for the rest of the afternoon.
On the people side, we were a student, a nanny, two girlfriends, a wife, and a fiancée, speaking in a weird mishmash of languages to describe the one common experience of, say, getting completely screwed up on the Métro (it’s so easy, and so very simple–as long as you don’t try to do anything involving zones, and I do mean “anything”).
“We are having mostly hors-d’oeuvres-sort-of-things,” the Czech woman told me. “Like escargots–do you like escargots?”
“I’ve only had them once,” I said, trying to look enthusiastic rather than terrified; there is usually a way to surreptitiously avoid any given dish.
This was not one of those times.
“Hand me the…[Czech word]?” she said authoritatively when we were all around the table, which contained the overwhelmingly garlicky snails, a basket of baguette slices, and nothing else. “The piques?” Toothpick in hand, she showed us how to dig out the meat, then tip the sauce out of the shell. “And they are good with bread.” And then it was our turn.
Yes, I ate the snails. I ate seven or so, actually–they were good. And they weren’t even Cordon Bleu snails this time; they were just regular snails that come frozen in a bag from the grocery store, and even so, it turns out that I rather enjoy escargots. I don’t know that I would try them without the bread, though, which was a great cover during my occasional moments of panic. I mean: I was eating snails. That realization is the sort of thing that tends to constrict my throat.
But they were good, and I was proud enough of my new accomplishment to float through the next course (sausage and calamari and salad), even before Kristina said this: “At first when you said ‘escargots‘ I was a little worried, but then I thought, ‘Well, the people who are coming, none of them are fussy, and we will all pretty much eat anything, so….’” And she looked around at each of us to confirm that this was true.
Of course I nodded along. What else could I do? Part of any good relocation is a bit of reinvention.