A weekend in Quebec

In the early 1970's, the United States Air Force sent me to a radar base in northern Maine. In those days before GPS, maps of Maine showed the top part of Aroostook County in an offset because the state is way longer (taller?) than the ordinary map could cover. My base was in that inset. It was so far north that the most convenient way to get into Canada was to drive south to Limestone then turn east.

I soon found that ladies beyond their teen years either married or left Aroostook County for a tryst with the better life in Augusta, Portland or Boston. Across the boarder in New Brunswick, the search was equally futile, that same age group of eligible females having fled the farmlands for a more exciting life in Riviere do Loup, or perhaps in that most European of Canadian cities, Quebec.

So that left me a rather frustrated bachelor in the prime of his life with little opportunity to meet interesting members of the opposite sex. I tried the bars and night clubs, but the choices, hardly a cornucopia, were often so inundated with requests to dance and drink from the excess of single men that it was not unlike a competitive sport, hardly conducive to romance. I took some college courses in one of the nearby towns, but it was purely a learning experience, not a meet-the-ladies experience. Oh there were ladies in my classes, but married women with husbands watching the children while Mom added to her education.

One, a nice looking lady in her mid thirties, was in a speech class with me. The professor's rules included one that, in a speech of demonstration if the item being demonstrated was edible, there had to be enough for the entire class. This lady demonstrated how to make a cough syrup that included lemons, sugar, water and bourbon, so she brought enough glasses for the whole class, and a new bottle of Jim Beam. After first testing the cough syrup, we classmates, and the professor, moved on to test the bourbon and water. It was a pleasant way to finish up the evening.  I hope she got a good grade.

So I looked outside the boundaries of Aroostook County for feminine companionship. I spent a weekend in Bangor, but it's a long drive through miles and miles of pine forest and trying to find clubs wasn't very productive. I crossed over into New Brunswick a number of times, but all to no avail.

One day, a friend and I were commiserating over our lack of female company when we both hit on the same idea at about the same time. Quebec. That hotbed of activity was only a few hours away, and best of all, was a French hotbed of activity. So we applied for a couple of day's leave, packed up my Plymouth Roadrunner, and headed off for "La vieille capitale" and hopefully, a weekend of fun and frolic, if not downright debauchery.

We found a boarding house in the heart of the old city, checked in, stored our bags, and went out onto the cobblestones looking for adventure.  We stumbled upon la Rue du Trésor an alley-like street that was blocked from automobiles where artists displayed their art, some of it barely a step above paint-by-number, others seemingly quite good.  We walked by restaurants and cafés, diners and bistros, taverns and bars, drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of that great city until we realized it was early evening and we needed nourishment.

We stopped at a restaurant that had tables on the sidewalk and got one.  I was determined that I would get something decidedly French before I even opened the menu, but was a bit stunned when the menu was all in French.  Not even small print English translations.  

Ris de Veau aux Champignons - My high school French teacher once told my mother that I was easily his most frustrating student, and in the twelve or so years since that time, my skill in the language had deteriorated to remembering just a few words. I remembered the veau was veal, champignons was mushrooms, and with all the logic of a barely passing French student, determined in my mind that ris must be rice. I like all three, rice, veal and mushrooms, so I ordered it by pointing at it on the menu and barely mumbling something that may have sounded like, "ree de view o sham pi nons." The waiter, to his credit, didn't sneer at my attempt to speak French, but he did confirm my order by pronouncing it his way.

The meal was served and I was a bit surprised at the absence of rice, but rather than act like an American oaf on his first trip to a French restaurant, which it was, I held my tongue and began eating.  The meat was light in color, in appearance not unlike pan-fried chicken, and had been cut into nearly bite size pieces and served with a richly-flavored gravy and mushrooms as I'd anticipated. The first bite was a surprise. How could veal be smooth, tender, juicy and rich flavored all at once? It didn't matter - I was hooked. Whatever Ris de Veau was, I liked it. It was delicious.

Back in northern Maine that next week, I went to the library and looked up Ris de Veau. I'd been eating the thymus or thyroid of a calf. I also learned that rather than call it that, restaurants in America would either use the French name or use a strange name for any meat product - sweetbreads.

Oh, one more thing.  We did meet a couple of really nice ladies in Quebec.  Two schoolteachers from New York state.  We danced in the caves beneath the Hotel Frontenac until late in the night and then shared an order of poutine in a small café just down the street.  In the morning, we met them for breakfast and walked the still quiet streets before promising to keep in touch and going our separate ways.