Have Fun Storming The Castle

 

Oh, dear God, what happened here, and why were three Jews from Sherman Oaks covered in scarves and beanies? I'll tell you why. Because we were colder than borscht. Our keppies were frozen. We needed a support team, and we got just that, courtesy of Chloé, who taught us how to bundle up, Frenchly, so that we weren't booted out of her hometown of Charleville-Mézières, for numerous fashion violations. The last thing we wanted to do was humiliate her in the Ardennes. We could humiliate her later when we got back home.

Well, you know how much I like to pose near important statues, in hopes that one day, a much-needed SJG Statue will pop up in front of Gelson's as an homage to my very silly existence and love of grocery shopping. Alas, since chances are slim of that ever happening, I had to settle for this regal moment, instead, with Charles Gonzague, the 8th duke of Mantua, and founder of Charleville in 1606.

Who said history wasn't fun? This is Charleville, a place so pretty, you could plotz. But please don't. That's beneath you. (See what I did there? Anyone?)

Sharing the sofa with our amazing French mishpocha (left to right): Chloé's parents Thierry and Nathalie, Chloé, the SJG and longtime hubby, Scotty, Chloé's brother Thibault, Thierry's mother Francoise and brother Philippe. In front, guarding his bubbly, Billy. Within moments of our arrival, they introduced us to the concept of Daily Champagne Drinking and delicious, long, multi-course meals. In return, I introduced them to the concept of poorly-pronounced, occasional bouts of atrocious college French, peppered with fairly decent high school Spanish. None of it made sense. But they pretended to understand me. For that, and their endless hospitality, I will be forever grateful.

 

French Scotty approved of the first course of our 18-course lunch at La Papillote. 

Billy and his In-Laws.

Okay, fine, 18 courses was a slight exaggeration. Can you say foie gras? Turns out, it went with everything. Even chocolate!

 

Thanks to Thierry, who enjoyed schlepping the Americans all the way to Bouillon, Belgium, I finally got the chance to storm the castle, metaphorically. Sadly, this was close as I got to gaining entry.

The denial may have had something to do with this alarming family photo taken on the grounds.

On Christmas Eve, Chloé, and moments later, the rest of us, marveled at the why-have-one-when-you-can-have-two seafood platters. Later, we ate much cheese and many other things I can't remember 'cuz I was beaucoup de tipsy.

And so ends today's blog. I must leave you dangling on Christmas Eve. But don't panic. Tomorrow, we'll jump in the time machine and travel all the way back, via reindeer, to last week's Christmas in Charleville, and a new holiday classic certain to become an animated movie, a merchandising bonanza, and kina hora, a Tony Award-Winning Broadway musical. Working title: "A Boy and His Beer."

Till then, I wish you and yours a Bonne Année. May 2019 be better than 2018, God willing.