In this particular establishment, a dozen giant escargots de Bourgogne arrive on a glass platter destined for this purpose, stuffed to the brim with a delectable parsley and garlic butter that my French boyfriend is convinced induces headaches upon consumption, not that it stops him, or even slows him down.
While my siblings stared, agog, at the mollusks on their plate, fourteen-year-old me ate every one. Upon our arrival, Nathalie greeted us and led us off the van to a long wooden table, complete with holes to hold glasses still, a precaution against the Tramontagne winds. Our campers slowly found their seats; the younger girls had found kittens to play with, and our host waited patiently as my fellow counselors and I corralled the children into place. The small net bag she held contained, she told us, small grey snails.
Had I not tasted this version the year before, I never would have guessed that they were full grown enough for consumption, at nearly a third of the size of the Burgundy snails I had sampled in Paris. The children, however, were nowhere near this sort of speculation; I looked around the table and examined the variety of expressions, from interest to awe to disgust.
First, small ramekins of aioli were passed around, with warnings that none should yet be eaten⦠the time for that would come. Our new job became upholding this law, which, in the hands of 14 six-toyear-olds, was ripe for the breaking. Slowly, the snails were handed out. The children examined them, played with them. They let them crawl on their arms and faces, squealing with disgust and delight. Miraculously, the group simmered down and waited.
After a few seconds, a nearly unperceivable pop sounded from the hot plate. I waited for the fallout, but whether it was because it was easier to hear in French than in English or whether they took a cue from the monkey-boy and his mother, the children were largely unaffected by the news. That is, until it was time to cook and eat their own snails.
