Vive le Real McCoy

We had to give the French credit: They usually managed to keep a straight face when we transplanted Americans tortured their native tongue. But the very words “American cuisine” could double them over in laughter. American, yes. But could hamburgers and hot dogs really be cuisine?

So as our first Thanksgiving in Paris approached, I was prepared for the French to look askance at our rather rustic New World ways. From the French perspective, a Thanksgiving meal is pretty sturdy, uninspired fare and we mere Pilgrims in the land of la grande cuisine.

Of course, the French could understand a roasted turkey. Although it hasn’t replaced their beloved duck, turkey is not unknown on the French table. But our birds, which had to be special-ordered from le boucher, did look like mutants when compared with the petite free-range French version. (Like the people themselves, French turkeys tend to be thin and small, with hairy legs and pale complexions.)

Then to serve, as my own grandmother did, mashed white potatoes and sweet potatoes at the same meal? And creamed corn? A sauce made of cranberries? Pie made from canned pumpkin? As the French really do say: “Oooo, la, la.”

To our great surprise, though, the French were intrigued by this American curiosity, the Thanksgiving holiday. They couldn’t help themselves. The entire country is, after all, taught from an early age to revere food--to study it, savor it, discuss it and eventually swallow it, only to discuss it some more. French mothers can be seen feeding their children veal chops and fresh peas at picnic lunches. (The five-course daily lunch menu at our daughter’s French preschool included a course of Camembert cheese.)

For the French, an entire holiday centered on food, even American food, was not something to be dismissed lightly.

That is not to say there was no cultural clash. First of all, the timing of the meal--in midafternoon--confused French friends accustomed to a more rigid meal schedule. (A Frenchwoman once asked my wife, Betsy, when Americans serve their Christmas meal. Upon hearing the answer, the Frenchwoman seemed perplexed. “Yes,” she said, “but is it lunch or dinner?”)

Of course, the Thursday of Thanksgiving is a workday for the French. So we usually celebrated with our own family meal, followed on the weekend with one or two get-togethers with homesick Americans and game French friends invited as observers.

The hunt for the right ingredients could take days. But, after three years in Paris, we became reasonably accomplished shoppers. Many Thanksgiving fixings could be found at an Americana specialty store in the Marais named, appropriately, Thanksgiving. Rare is the American in Paris who has not made a pilgrimage to Thanksgiving (which is open year-round) for everything from Campbell’s soups and Hershey’s kisses to bagels and cranberry sauce.

Another reliable, if expensive, repository was the French food emporium Fauchon, where a small can of pumpkin sells for the equivalent of $7. Fauchon also makes its own creamy flan-like version of pumpkin pie with a tiny paper American flag flying from a toothpick in the center. Both Thanksgiving and Fauchon can prepare piping hot turkeys, although the cost--about $200--is prohibitive for most Americans.

We usually went the cheaper route, ordering our turkey from the butcher ($50 for a 14-pound bird). He cut off the feet and singed the stubble of feathers from the fowl’s legs as we watched.

Then we would drag out our trusty copy of “The Joy of Cooking” and follow the directions. We would splurge for a can of cranberry sauce ($10) from Fauchon and make the stuffing from scratch with fresh mushrooms. For dessert, we usually had one of those Fauchon pumpkin pies. And we washed the whole thing down with French champagne and a bottle of Cha^teauneuf-du-Pape.

By the time we left France this year, we had noticed a marked increase in interest in Thanksgiving. The French had tended to view it the same way they viewed Hollywood blockbuster movies, as the odd product of a distant, unrefined culture. Suddenly, though, they were taking it seriously.

Le Figaro, the largest daily newspaper in Paris, has taken to publishing a shopping guide for the American holiday, educating readers about the “indispensable products” of Thanksgiving, from corn holders and gravy mixes to graham cracker crumb crusts and cranberries. Each item, the paper said, is “the real McCoy” and necessary to “gobble, gobble, gobble in unison.”

One year, the paper was most fascinated by the pop-up timer for turkey roasting. The timer, Le Figaro informed its readers, was “a curious thermometer that could only come from the imagination of Americans.”

Le Figaro also runs several pages of listings for restaurants staging special tributes to Thanksgiving. They range from the sublime--the elaborate Thanksgiving Day menu at bistros run by the famed chef Guy Savoy--to the bizarre--free tastings of Wild Turkey bourbon at the Winston Churchill tavern.

Karim Michel-Haciski, who edits the restaurant listings in Le Figaro, says Thanksgiving isn’t as big a success in France as Halloween but reports that it has been growing. Still, she adds, “It’s mostly for Americans living here. You won’t find a Thanksgiving meal at a place like the Crillon Hotel, for instance.”

Savoy regards his popular Thanksgiving Day dinners, which have become an annual event, as a tribute to his American customers. “They are very popular,” he explained. “For us, it’s a sort of wink to the American culture. Of course, we have French clients who like the dinner too. They appreciate different cultures.”

Savoy’s Thanksgiving Day meals bear an unmistakable French mark. Here is the menu his bistros are offering this year:

Mussels and Pumpkin Soup

Wild Turkey Stuffed with Foie Gras, Natural Gravy

Sweet Potatoes and Bacon

Carrots and Parsley

Green Beans

Green Salad and Melted Reblochon Cheese

Pumpkin Pie

Apple Pie

Coffee

“We do special dinners for the 14th of July [Bastille Day] and for Christmas,” Savoy said. “Why not for Thanksgiving?”