The Frenchabbat

When I showed up at Judith’s family apartment around 8 PM, I was absolutely not hungry. I had just finished my last macaron – a caramel beurre de sel delight, the best dessert I’d ever eaten, and still could taste the sweet salt melting in my mouth.

Once I walked into the ornate foyer, I was overwhelmed by the smells of many more delicious things and began to work up my appetite again, knowing I’d need it.

I mentioned that I speak no French. Several times. Well, most of her family speaks little English. So, you may be wondering just how did I end up in a kosher apartment in the 16^th arrondisement for a French family’s holiday dinner?  Judith attended Journalism classes at NU for a reverse study abroad two years ago and since she is absolutely delightful and kind as they come, her cool French 20-year-old self and American college freshman me bonded over Journalism and Jews, the two things we both spend most time on. Two years later, here I am in Paris, welcomed into her home for a Shabbat dinner. And it smells great.

After many many many kisses from her mother, her sister, her brother, her cousin, her aunt, her other brother, her uncle, her other cousin, her other aunt, etc. I sat down at a table of endless platters and lots of French.

Though they might as well have been speaking babel, I knew the prayers and songs of Shabbat, the familiar tunes of Shalom Aleichem, the two loaves of homemade challah, the song for praising women, and the shared cup of wine… It doesn’t matter how far away I go – in a cozy Jewish home, I’m at home.

While I didn’t understand a lot of what anyone was saying, I had good translators by my side (Judith and her cousin, Rebecca, who works at Dior. NBD) to help navigate through fried eggplant, faux shrimp, homemade chicken fingers, chive dumplings, red pepper salad, and too much more. And that was just starters.

It was easy to not talk because I was so busy eating and still did not know French. I was served beef, chicken, veal, and TONGUE. Kosher overload. That’s one carnivorous feast for meat-hungry me.

Judith’s little cousin was perhaps the most enthusiastic about English. She ran up to me and repeated “Hello, my name is” over and over, without actually saying a name, encouraging everyone to introduce themselves in English. I appreciated her enthusiasm immensely and wish that I’d be running around saying that in French when I was 6. It’s just a sexier language than English.

Around eleven, I was sad to leave the warmth of the Chetrit home but the metro (and my pillow) were calling my name.  As I walked downstairs, I could still taste the coca cola gummy from dessert. Food, French, and Family – absolutely a Shabbat to remember.