American Food in France

3:44 p.m. Friday, June 12, 2015

If you have read my previous journal that I proudly finished, you would know that a lot of queer things have happened to me. I probably shouldn’t use queer; it might sound strange because I am queer… I think strange is better. Yes, very, very unfortunate things. My name is Sinclair Foote, and I am more distinguished than most people. Of course, that’s a euphemism. It’s pretty evident that I’m better than everyone.

So, I just came back from Paris two weeks ago. I actually had a great time. The only flaw is that the people are all European, so they think peeing on the streets and letting their babies go naked is fine.

I think the best restaurant I went to was this place called Le Cinq at the George Cinq Hotel. The meal cost $1,055 – the most expensive and exquisite dinner I have ever had and paid for. It was completely and utterly worth it.

The help began with some wonderful warm French Bread – though I think the waiters tried too hard. They were far too nice and positive. For my appetizer I had a perfectly seared Foie Gras roasted with pistils of flower, pear, and petals of sweet and sour radish. It was $70 and almost as good as mine. For my second course I had Coquilles St. Jacques. The sauce wasn’t thick enough. For my entree, I had pithiviers of Grouse, Duck Mallard and Young Partridge with chestnut honey, autumn fruits, and squeezed juice with armagnac. I was a bit of a grouse myself after the meal because it was a little greasy. Actually, now that I think about it, I’m a more exquisite cook than the whole staff put together.

When I went to a market, there were sections for all the nations’ foods. In the Japanese section, there was ramen and a freezer for the terribly put-together sushi. In the Indian section, there were bags of dried curry that looked like they would give a person a day and night’s worth of diarrhea.

Finally, I reached the American section and was curious to see what they thought of us Americans. I walked down the aisle, hearing every creak my feet made. People rushed past me with their carts as I stood frozen, staring in horror at the rows of vile pleasure before me – Oreos, peanut butter, cake mix, candy cereal with the midget leprechaun, potato chips with so much salt it’s very likely they came from the Dead Sea, and Hersheys – the most vulgar chocolate ever made. If a Hershey kiss kissed me, I’d lock myself in a closet with Tom Cruise. The list goes on. SO many unhealthy foods!

This was the most insulting incident I had ever encountered! America has so many great restaurants, like that restaurant Providence in L.A. It has four Michelin stars! Although, when I had their smoked trout, I had to send it back because it was a little too fishy. I only went back there once, but they no longer have the foie gras ravioli, because those imbecilic Sacramentans outlawed it! Everybody from Sacramento is an idiot!

But let’s get back to the point. America has some of the most delicious food, not on the planet, though. But it’s definitely better than Hungary! No wonder they go hungry all the time!

My new life goal is to replace the vile filth in the American section of that French market with high-quality cuisine that better represents my country and home that I’m probably going to move away from.

Then I realized that I said all of that out loud and I was very embarrassed. At least no one was in that aisle, because it’s the American section and no one would be caught dead there.

I walked out of the store so enraged. What I thought at that very frustrating, confusing moment was: I cannot believe this! This is terrible! Only the disgusting, greasy-haired, wannabees that eat only at Tito’s Tacos eat those disgraceful foods!

So I have decided that after seeing so much awful American food, I will stop this from happening!

I will get a flight back to Paris in three weeks. I don’t think I will ever be able to stomach American food again.


5:14 a.m. Saturday, June 13, 2015

I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I really think I have insomnia because I’ve been waking up a lot at night, and it’s been very hard to sleep, and let me tell you, when I can’t fall asleep, I wake up with very dark rings under my eyes and dark rings do not help my complexion at all. I also think I have OCD, because when I see something that isn’t perfect, I feel the need to fix it. And I am pretty sure I have a cyclothymic disorder because I haven’t been interested that much in my daily shows. Well, Seth MacFarlane has gone downhill after that horrible “A Million Ways to Die in the West” thing he calls a movie. I mean, Neil Patrick Harris makes Adam Sandler look good.

Anyway, last week I went to the doctor because I thought I had diabetes, and Dr. Bowmann said, “You have been coming to me at least twice a month saying that you think you have a certain disease or virus. I either think you have hypochondria or you have a crush on me.”

He chuckled. I made the most insulting disgusted face I could make. And after that brief, annoying sentence he said that I had hypochondria. He explained the meaning and I realized that I did have it.

He said I should see a therapist and gave me this supposedly “great” therapist’s number and address.

After that, I went home and had my daily macchiato and chocolate chip cookies that I found at Whole Foods. They’re gluten-free and I KNOW gluten-free is really terrible, but these are just the best cookies I’ve ever had. They melt in your mouth and they’re so crunchy. But I’ve only started eating them since Mindy and Danny broke up on The Mindy Project. It left me looking like an addict who hasn’t had a smoke in a week.

For the past three months, I’ve gone on a gluten-free diet because I’m worried that I will get Celiac’s Disease. No matter what, I will always be against gluten-free foods. I think it is the stupidest thing I have ever encountered. Whenever you try to make something that is gluten-free, it ends up tasting like what the inside of a pelican’s mouth looks like.

After my macchiato, I called the number of the therapist. The person who answered had a weird accent that I disliked very strongly.

He said, “Howdy, friend. What’cha needin’?”

I asked him if he was a therapist, trying hard not to seem disgusted.

He said, “Reckon’ I am! Jeremiah Alabaster Mackelroy is the name, but you can just call me Dr. J.A. Mackelory.”

I sighed, frustrated, and replied, “Okay, well, when can I come in?”

He said I could come tomorrow. He doesn’t have many clients, so I could come in at 9:30.

I did not expect anything good to come out of this.


9:27 a.m. Sunday, June 14, 2015

I waited in the waiting room of the so called “therapist’s” office, sitting on the disgusting cracked leather couch. The only magazines there were architecture magazines, which had the ugliest architecture I had ever seen. The architects were physically unable to design. I could make more than $100,000,000 being an architect and I would be so exquisite that I would get so many jobs and I would have to turn down at least 10 jobs a week. The only other magazine there was some kind of Texas vogue magazine, but the clothes were awful! There was a cheap polyester plaid crop top that said “howdy.” I was stunned. It was just like that time when I saw three fourth graders at the mall and the ugly, curly-haired, short girl said to the other two girls, “The first person to touch my hand is my best friend!” and they started chasing her!

Anyway, Dr. J.A. Mackelroy called me in. When I first walked into the room, I knew this was a big mistake. He was overweight and sort of bald, wearing a cowboy hat. Everything he was wearing was denim. He was wearing one of those out-of-fashion cowboy ties. It was classic cowboy. I would rather watch Adam Sandler in Jack and Jill with Arinna Grande than go to this therapy session. When I walked into the room it reeked of incense. I really don’t see how that could be soothing for a patient. I actually almost stepped out of the room. I would have done anything for death to come and take me away. There wasn’t a single thing in that hellhole he called a room that didn’t symbolize Texas. He definitely does not work the Texas style. I know if I were in his repugnant shoes I would work it like there was no tomorrow, I would be like Alexa Chung. But I’m obviously more stylish than her.

He said, “Please, sit.”

I took one look at the chair which was cowskin dyed magenta and thought, Ew. I sighed and said in a very tight voice, “Yeah, I would prefer to stand.”

He looked very annoyed and replied in a voice like he was trying to sound nice but not succeeding, “Please sit in the darn chair, I would not like to repeat myself.”

So I did – probably looking uncomfortable.

Then he said, “So, yous’ got hypochondria.”

And I didn’t say anything, but I really wanted to ask him how he didn’t drown in his own filth.

You probably have figured out by now that I am grossed out by most fast foods. Well, I think I am going to sue Dr. J.A. Mackelroy for what he did then. He took an In-N-Out burger from… I don’t even know where! Then he took out animal-style fries and started eating them with his hands. I started to gag, and not that small little gag that you have in your head, that huge one that is very noticeable. Unfortunately, he didn’t notice my gags. Then he asked how high do I think my self esteem is, and that’s where I drew the line. I got up, brushed off the part of my body that touched the chair, put on hand sanitizer, and left – scarred for life.



7:09 a.m. Monday, June 15, 2015

I was on the phone for exactly 46 minutes with this guy that had a robot voice. He kept on saying, “Thank you, and if you have any other problems, please call us.” And I was yelling at him, “No! I have a problem right now! Can you talk to me now, you stupid emotionless cyborg!”

He repeated the idiotic line again. I told him – or it – “This is not good customer service. I will write terrible things about you on Yelp!”

This went on for 35 more minutes.

I finally booked the flight tickets, first class, to Paris. I refuse to sit in economy class; I would rather watch a two-hour block of “How I Met Your Mother.” But first class is still pretty disgusting. The cookies they give you at the end are just TOO soft and gooey. The gluten-free cookies are the good cookies, because they’re crunchy yet they melt in your mouth. God I love those cookies… *Ahem* Umm… Uhh… I mean, the chocolate chips are usually a bit stale. Anyway, I am leaving in two days.


6:07 a.m. Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Today is the day that i go to Paris. I had my daily macchiato and gluten free cookie(s). I had packed my various clothing, mostly by Michael Kors. After that I ordered my driver, Topvik, to pick me up, because I refuse to take a taxi. Taxis are supposed to cause half of the type of common colds that occur in Silverlake.

I only got to watch one episode of Family Guy. It was the one where Peter finds out Lois is Jewish and starts talking with a very guttural voice. At about a quarter to seven, my driver, Topvik, picked me up.

When we arrived at the airport, it wasn’t very crowded for some reason. As I checked in, I thought I saw Conway Twitty, but I don’t know for sure. God, I hate his facial expressions when he sings, and that hair? Yeesh!

I arrived in first class. The in-air help gave me a hot towel and served me some Moet & Chandon. It was flat. The person sitting closest to me was the same guy I thought was Conway Twitty.

I turned to my side and asked him, “Are you Conway Twitty?”

He looked very insulted and replied, “Conway Twitty has been dead 20 years, and that is the most insulting thing that I’ve heard since I got a nose job.” He had a thick deep New York accent.

I sniffed in a very condescending way and looked down my nose at him. I turned away, raising my eyebrow. I mean, his hair wasn’t that magnificent.

* * *

After six hours, they served dinner. I ordered just a caesar salad with some more Moet & Chandon. The only other options they had were shrimp cocktails, a lamb shwarma with pasta that looked disgusting – even on the menu- and some other kind of fish that looked like it would give me E. coli poisoning.

Every hour I walked down the aisles because I read in a beauty magazine that if you just sit in one seat for one hour that it will paralyze your butt, and I don’t need that stress hanging over me.

We arrived around 2:30 p.m. and I saw some of the other idiots that were in first class walking very stiffly, so I’m glad that I walked down the aisles.


6:04 a.m. Thursday, June 18, The Apartment

I arrived at my apartment around 4:00 p.m.. I never get jet lagged, because the amount of water pills and macchiatos that I drink doesn’t let jet lag affect me.

I got dressed in all Michael Kors clothes. I went to the same market where I was so offended three weeks ago. I stopped outside the front doors and realized… this is one of the biggest moments of my life. This is my legacy. This is what Paris will remember me for.

This is it.

I walked determinedly into the store, heel-toe heel-toe, with purpose. I asked the little butler that was chopping prosciutto if I could talk to the manager, in French. He said, “Umm… Uhh… Sure. You can see him. Do you have a problem?”

“Yes I do have a problem, but I don’t wish to talk about it with a little butler who chops prosciutto.”

“Oui, oui, desoleil.” Then he took me to the manager.

The manager said, “What do you need?”

He was wearing small Harry Potter-like glasses that were far too tiny for his huge fat head. He was also bald, which made his complexion look worse because there was just so much of it without hair to cover it up. I demanded he replace the American section in the market because it was highly offensive to my kind.

He just plainly responded: “No.”

I asked again, more firmly. And he said again, “No.”

I finally said back to him, “You disgusting vile fat pasty-faced swine!”

He just said, “No,” again.

I said, very confused, “Well, then can I buy everything in that section?”

And then he said, “Yes.” He gave me the price. It was $1,055. Ironically, it was the exact same amount of money as the Les Cinq dinner.

“I’ll… take it,” I hesitantly agree.

I paid for the 450 pounds of food, called Topvik and told him, “Bring your largest car.”

I succeeded. I had done it. It was very expensive, but I’m rich, so who cares? I spared Paris from the vile stereotyped American food.

* * *

Topvik walked into my hotel room later that night to tell me that I had left my Michael Kors clutch in the car. But he stopped, stunned, and stared at me. I was just chewing on some raw Toll House cookie dough underneath the covers of the bed…

I guess I betrayed my gluten-free diet. God bless America.


One thought on “American Food in France”

  1. Oh Lila!!! This story was so amazing! I can’t wait to hear more of your intriguing stories full of so much fun!!!!
    Your friend

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