ABOVE: Lisa Schiffren suppresses gag reflex at the
thought of another plate of French food
One of the abiding questions of interest to academic wingnutologists (such as the staff here at Sadly, No!) is the travel question. Why, we ask, do wingnuts travel to foreign countries? Creatures of habit, suspicious of strangers, monolingual junk food addicts and perpetual scolds, what exactly is in it for them? They wander about Rome complaining that they can’t find a Starbucks or Caribou Coffee anywhere. They return from Madrid complaining that not one restaurant served a taco salad. Imagine that, in the place that invented Mexican food, the locals eat raw ham and some kind of funny little fish called tapas.
So when I saw that Lisa Schiffren posted to America’s Shittiest Website™ from France, I could scarcely control my excitement. What news would she send us from l’Hexagone? What indignity would she report had been visited upon her by an un-shaven waiter, reeking of sweat, garlic and tobacco? How many vile shopwomen had shortchanged her? Well, kids, its better than that. Schiffren writes that the best place to eat in France is McDonald’s. Fuck the foie gras, she’s shoving another Royal Deluxe (that’s frog for Quarter Pounder with Cheese) down her craw every chance she gets.
Let’s join Lisa with her three children (Rush, Little Ronnie, and Ayn) at the Louvre:
[T]here is a lot of bad food in France — especially around tourist sites, including the great museums. I will not say what I paid for two sandwiches and two salads — all premade so unwanted ingredients could not be removed in advance — and a few soft drinks at the Louvre.
Well, certainly the best place to get a good idea of any country’s cuisine is around its biggest tourist sites. I too would be outraged if I went to a place overrun with tour buses and bought a pre-packaged sandwich only to discover that, rather than medium-rare Wagyu beef strips, artisanal goat cheese, a crisp mesclun garnish and hand-made aioli on a freshly-baked olive baguette, I got a ham sandwich on stale bread with wilted lettuce and two drops of acrid mustard. Who’d a thunk? Only the vile French could pull a stunt like that on an unsuspecting American.
And here’s another valuable travel tip from Lisa. When traveling abroad, rather than eating on the local schedule, insist on eating at the same time you’re used to eating at home:
Restaurant meals are available at very limited hours. You want lunch — it had better be between 12 and 2. Miss that and you can have a snack — but only if you are in a place big enough to have a range of restaurant types. Dinner starts at 7, no matter that you missed lunch and want a burger or a salad at 5, not ice cream or a beer.
Of course, the reason Lisa might not be able to get a burger at a restaurant in Paris at 5:00 may have more to do with where she was than what time it was. She’s in frigging Paris. You don’t find burgers on the menus in Paris any more than you can find civet de sanglier or tarte tatin on the menu at Chili’s or Applebee’s. And also, here’s a tip for Lisa. Every corner bar in France serves food, all sorts, all the time; you’re not just limited to beer and ice cream.
To explain these draconian dining hours, Lisa reaches deep into her bottomless well of nutty ideas. The reason is:
The French do not much like children
In that case, I’m amazed that French civilization didn’t disappear from the face of the earth centuries ago. But hold that thought about the French hating children for just a sec
I like the leisurely lunch as much as any journalist, of course. But not with my kids. …
She’s on vacation with her children but doesn’t want to eat nice lunches with them. Can’t you feel the love pouring from Lisa towards Rush, Little Ronnie and Ayn?
So it’s Le MacDo pour tout le monde. All I can add to this is that Lisa is clearly auditioning to be the successor to America’s Worst Mother™, formerly Meghan Gurdon, and that one day little Ayn will write a tearful memoir about how her self-absorbed mother dragged her by her pigtails through France, Le Happy Meal, her only source of nourishment, while Momma screamed at the shopkeepers who pretended not to speak English and made nasty remarks to the waiters who brought her, and overcharged her for, a bottle of Perrier every time she ordered a scotch and soda. The dust jacket will be illustrated with a picture of a young girl with her nose pressed against the window of a pâtisserie being beaten with a coat-hanger by a disagreeable woman in sweat pants and sneakers.