French Mustard

One of my favorite mustards is Maille dijon mustard. Not the grainy kind, although that one is very tasty as well, but the smooth kind with that little sinus bite reminiscent of wasabi. So when we went grocery shopping in Breda for the first time to stock our empty refrigerator with the basics, I bought some Maille dijon mustard. It looked exactly like the same stuff, in the same distinctively-shaped little jar, sold in U.S. supermarkets. It tasted mostly, but not exactly, like the Maille dijon sold in the U.S. To my surprise (and subsequent delight when I recovered), this mustard is significantly sharper than the version France ships to the U.S. (no doubt all the while very Frenchly snickering when our culinary backs are turned).

Ever curious, I took a closer look at the label. The design and color were the same as the U.S. version. The label reads "dijon originale." Aha, I thought, maybe the American version doesn't say "originale," or even "original," "authentic," or anything else along those lines. Maybe the label on the mustard designed for American consumption just says "dijon mustard," when it should probably read "dijon mustard somewhat watered down for ze wimpy and undiscriminating palates of ze average American consumer, who undoubtedly lacks ze sinusoidal fortitude to handle ze real thing." But it would probably be too difficult to fit all that on the label.

Well, French culinary types, I have just this to say to you:

During our first week in Holland, while strolling through downtown Breda, minding our own business and actively soliciting no attention whatsoever from any French citizens who might be passing by, we were stopped by a French couple who wanted to ask us for directions. The homme of said couple approached Wijo and asked (predictably) "Parlez-vous francais?" So, since Wijo admitted to "un peu," nos ami asked,

 "Ou et le McDonalds?" 

The entire French nation had to have been squirming in embarrassment at that very moment. Or, now that they know about it from reading this blog, they must be squirming. So much for culinary elitist posturing.

On the other hand, it's certainly possible le dude and la dudette francais needed to get to the McDonalds for some top-level espionage meet to hand off some ultra-confidential, top-level spy-type intelligence. Which is my theory, and I'm sticking with it. Because, as self-respecting French citizens, they couldn't have been going there for the food, could they?