The French table presents many challenges to the average American. The first is one of stamina. I will never forget my first twelve hour meal. Well, to be exact, it was two meals, but one ran right into the other. Lunch began at noon and the conversation carried us through dinner until midnight. At one point I broke the spell and went for a quick walk, but I was the only one—my poor glutes just couldn't take any more sitting in my wrought iron chair. 

Apart from such marathon feasts, your derrière better be ready to sit for a good three hours even for an ordinary weekend dinner. 

The second test is one of table manners. I've learned not to be ashamed when most of the small children at the table brandish their steak knives with more grace and agility than me. Or when my dinner companion asks why I keep switching my utensils from hand to hand when I need to cut something. Or when someone points out that, technically, it's rude to cut salad. (Why am I the only one left with salad dressing on my chin when shoveling a lettuce leaf the size of a quilt into my mouth?) But, the third, and most important, is the challenge of the food itself. 

We simply haven't been introduced to many foods that commonly feature on a typical French menu. Of course, this is changing as the foodie-culture continues to rise in the States. These days you can find whole restaurants dedicated to using all parts of the pig and hear tales of Manhattan investment bankers retiring at thirty to become artisanal cheese makers in Vermont. But, still, in many cases, French food has the power to shock Americans. Or, if not shock us, at least shut us and our taste buds up with trepidation, and the French get a huge kick out of this. They like putting your Francophilia to the test: "Oh, you like our wine and our literature, but what do you think about our headcheese?"

Over the years I have worked out that there are certain levels in the quest to full French acceptance in this regard:
Level One: Things Found in the Forest or Pond
Level Two: Mold
Level Three: Parts Cruelly Prepared 
Level Four: Viscera
Level Five (The Ultimate Test): The Animal's Periphery, aka Face and Feet

In general, French people love to discuss food, and when they dine with an American it's a great chance for them to relive some of their favorite dishes, while simultaneously freaking out their guest, so this is a familiar conversation: 

Host: "Have you tried frog legs? How about escargot?" (Level One)

Guest: "Sure! It's easy to love anything bathed in garlic, butter and herbs." 

Host: "I'm glad to hear you're not like most Americans. Here, try this nice Pont L'Eveque." (Level Two) And, you are presented with the source of the stench that's been knocking you over for the past three hours, the king of stinky cheese, which has been ripening at room temperature on the counter. 
 
Guest: "Why thank you, that's delicious." They're annoyed when you don't protest.

Host: "And foie gras? We've heard that some American cities have banned this delicacy!" (Level Three)

Guest: "Actually, I think that ban's been lifted." Now, they're truly disappointed.

Host: "What about blood sausage? Andouillette? Tripe? Kidneys?" At this point, they're trying anything to stump you, but when you've finally passed Level Four, you may be the proud recipient of a French nod-frown of "not bad". 

But, I'm ashamed to admit, I flunked Level 5 completely. 

Over the years a friend from Lyon, which some French people consider to be the culinary capital of the country, had heard me repeatedly profess my love for various scary French foods and seen me flaunt my hearty appetite, and I'm convinced she decided to test my mettle once and for all. So, one evening she invited us for a simple, light dinner outside on one of those mild summer nights when twilight hits late and lasts long. 

When the aperitif began, I should have recognized the bad omen lurking in the lawn. A black cat hovered over a patch in the grass, unmoving for what seemed like an hour. Finally, he pounced in a frenzied, brief attack. In the alien blue of the evening it was difficult to see what he had succeeded in capturing, so the guests took a stroll over, champagne flutes in hand, to discover the cat batting around the detached head of a gopher. We watched the grisly game, fascinated. 

At the same time, our hostess was laying out the repast: fresh bread, a bottle of cellar-cooled red, and two large salads, one of museau, the other of pied de cochon, which in French sound beautiful, but when translated are immediately stripped of their appeal: snout salad and pig foot salad. 

In concept, I didn't object. Our hostess is an amazing cook, and I knew she was serving the best, and indeed, the other diners tucked in and sang the salads' delicious praises. 

The first forkful of cartilage did me in. Usually I have no problem with texture. Chewy, slimy, gooey, mushy? No problem. But I had the distinct impression that I was affectionately nibbling on a cold pig's ear. It was too much. Of course, I kept my proud mouth shut and hoped my uneaten salads were somewhat hidden in the shadows. 

Did I imagine a mischievous crinkle at the corner of my friend's mouth when she offered me seconds? Perhaps we both knew that I had been vanquished, that I hadn't passed Level Five. 

The cat was still busy with his savage playtime in the lawn. The guests at the table elegantly chewed their thin pink squares of museau and pied. I tore off a chunk of baguette, took a big swig of Burgundy and promised myself to do better the next time I'm presented with a gourmet foot on my plate. 

When I moved to Chicago many years ago I chose a tiny studio apartment in the heart of the Gold Coast, because it was in the thick of things, but also because it was directly across the street from a decent bookstore (when alone in a big city, it's always helpful to have a book haven nearby). 

But, until I sat down with the building manager to go over my lease agreement, I had no idea that I was moving a block away from what some locals refer to as the Viagra Triangle. 

After explaining the apartment's pet policy, the building manager, a pretty Chicagoan in her late twenties, said casually, "If you ever want a free meal, you should go to Gibsons. It's just around the corner on Rush Street."

I thought it odd that she would be referring me to a soup kitchen when I had just signed a year lease. Were my shoes that shabby?

"A free meal?" 

"Yeah, in the Viagra Triangle," she clarified.

I imagined a charity group called the Triangle ladling out free hot soup and pressing handfuls of Viagra into grateful palms. 

"The what?" 

She laughed, "You know, all the restaurants and bars down the street. That area's called the Viagra Triangle because it's where older rich dudes pick up women. So, yeah, if you ever want a nice free meal, just head down to Gibsons Bar, wait a bit and a dude will buy you a drink and a steak in no time. My friends and I do it all the time." 

She probably saw the look of horror on my face, because she dropped it and started talking about bike storage in the building. Or maybe her advice was simply part of their welcome orientation: Pets, Viagra Triangle, Bikes, Recycling. 

During the summer I would pass Gibsons with its outdoor tables covered with snazzy green and white checkered tablecloths and look for my building manager with a steakhouse sugar daddy, but I only ever saw families, cozy couples and tourists digging into impressive Chicago-sized plates. I was almost let down. Where were the impresarios and soulfree girls hungry for steak? Everyone looked disappointingly normal. But this was actually a relief, because one day my new boyfriend, who is now my husband, asked if I wanted to meet there for lunch. 

"At Gibsons? Have you ever been there before?" I asked apprehensively. 

"Of course! They have the best steak in Chicago." 

After one lunch there, I too was won over, and I could almost understand how someone might hang out at the bar hoping to be offered a martini and a meal, because it's just that darn delicious. If ever you were to sell your soul for a steak, theirs would be the one to do it for. 

Gibsons would not be Gibsons in any other city in the world. It is quintessentially Chicago. Everything is large and lavish, but its Midwestern values cut through the ostentatiousness; its spectacle is simply the natural result of bighearted generosity. The friendly servers set down huge portions on the table as if they were mothers over-serving their children home for the holidays. 

Before ordering you will be shown a gigantic platter with all the cuts of steak available. The waiter probably presents the same tray of raw meat sixty times a day but from the first to the last table his delivery is just as spirited and magnanimous. He explains each hefty piece with pride and finally recommends the Chicago cut, a twenty-two ounce challenge to good sense. 

And, why not some sides? Now's not the time to get fancy. Creamed spinach and mashed potatoes will do just fine. 

You ask for a serving of ice-cream, as my innocent mother-in-law did one day, and you are presented a towering 6-scoop sundae. You order a slice of chocolate cake or macadamia nut pie, and though the price should clue you in to its size, the server doesn't tell you that it's enough to share with all six of your dinner companions. The waiter wordlessly arrives with a slab of cake that is the size of some European cars. 

"Here you are. The chocolate cake. Would you like some extra forks by any chance?" 

I spent many Saturday lunches at those outdoor tables at Gibsons, and unfortunately, I never once witnessed a transaction like the building manager described. Although there are certainly some interesting characters that frequent the joint, the naughtiest, most blush-worthy thing about the place is the food. 

I only met my great-grandmother once, in her small white cottage with a pretty porch swing, and what I remember most about the visit when I was six years old was a plate of greens she sautéed in bacon and fed me in her kitchen. I can't be sure, but I'm almost positive that in her life she never tried Tofurkey, sushi, protein bars, mole enchiladas, biscotti, curry or blue-veined stilton. 

She wasn't spoiled for choice like we are today, and yet she still made one of the best dishes I've ever tasted. These days we tend to idealize this simpler culinary time, imagining our foremothers gathering fresh herbs into their aprons plucked from sunny gardens and cooking up glorious feasts with food cultivated and produced by their hands or their neighbors'. They didn't count calories or go to the gym or think about blood pressure. They worked hard and ate well, but simply. 

But, to be honest, Great-Grandma was fat. 

Maybe it was all that bacon. Or maybe my memory is flawed, and she was an early fan of Coke and Doritos. Who knows? The point is, the simpler time wasn't necessarily better. If my foremothers reflected upon food, it was most likely along the lines of "Do I have enough food to feed my family?" not "Where does this fall on the Glycemic Index?" 

In any case, we cannot go back. We can try to replicate their restrictions by focusing on local, organic, seasonal vegetables and sustainable protein sources, but it must be a conscious choice and a deliberate effort, because the reality is, we are flooded by choice. 

Our grocery stores, practically warehouses themselves, overflow with the products of infinite combinations of manufactured flavors and newly invented textures to entertain your tongue. Fitness experts urge people to steer clear of the interior aisles and concentrate on the periphery, but even the periphery bulges with fruits and vegetables of all seasons, suspect fish and hormone-injected meat. We're obliged to be informed consumers, reading books on the proper way to eat for the planet and for ourselves. For the first time, we, not just our cultural or socio-economic reality, are responsible for our health, and if we are lucky enough to have the means for making knowledgeable decisions, we should try to do just that. 

In our idealized past, our mothers ate what their mothers gave them and they brought those lessons to us. But, in reality, our grandmothers discovered the joys of convenience food and our poor moms suffered the resulting stomachaches. Our mothers began the search for a healthier way to live, a better way to eat. 

My mother does not have an idealized culinary childhood. She remembers getting excited when a rare vegetable, canned of course, made an appearance on the dinner table. She remembers stomachaches, day after day. And, she remembers the nuns. At Catholic school pupils would bring in their bagged lunches and eat them at their desks in the classroom, and every day, my mother would unwrap her bologna sandwich on white bread with dread. So she began hiding them inside the convenient desk among her pencil box and notebooks. Of course the stashed sandwiches were found by the Sisters, and they charged ahead in a daylong campaign of shame that only ended when she had to carry home the moldy sandwiches in a sack to her parents. 

It's no wonder that she began looking for something better, and in her early twenties her health guided her to principles that she has maintained for the last 30+ years: no meat, very little processed sugar. She has stayed lean, healthy and stomachache-free ever since (except for that time I took her to Paris and introduced her to crêpes  and fondue). She created her own habits from research and experimentation; it was not passed down from generation to generation, if anything it was a break from tradition. And that is what many of us have to do today. We must examine our assumptions about food, from our childhood and culture, and find out what works best for us. 

We all have different traditions, and it's up to us to keep and honor them or reject them. Food can be a pleasure, a poison, a comfort, a cure and a hobby. It can sabotage our health or deliver us into wellbeing. We feed our cells with our chosen nourishment, so how do we choose? Do we let our tastes guide us? Do we let convenience dictate our diets? 

This is where wacky diets are helpful. 

I agree, the concept of a diet is kind of a downer, especially in the traditional sense of restricting food in order to lose weight. But, what if a diet was just a way of paying attention and trying new things in order to find your body's preferences. Unlike my mother, I haven't easily or quickly found my own perfect principles. It's a much more haphazard, scattered endeavor, one that careens toward one principle "Eat to live rather than live to eat!" then toward another, "Everything in moderation, including moderation!" 

If left to my own devices (which, to be honest, I often am), I would be a full-blown, full-time culinary hedonist, indulging in every pleasure known to the palate. I simply don't get bored eating. I find it endlessly fascinating and fun, from meal to meal. Because we are inundated by choice, we have to set some limits from time to time. People might argue that wacky diets set us up for failure, but to me wacky diets are simply self-experiments used to discover what works best for us. Try it out! See if it works! Something might stick, like vegetarianism for my mother; others might get crossed off the list (myself, I can't give up chorizo). What makes you feel good? What gives you the most pleasure? What's your body telling you? It was on a cleanse that I discovered that what I had assumed was an inbred anxiety was just my natural reaction to caffeine. 

Diets are a way of tuning into your body's subtle reactions, flipping on a light switch and seeing what's been present all along. I've done cleanses, tried Paleo, taken breaks from sugar, gluten, dairy and alcohol. In every case, yes, that pizza at the end tasted even better than I remembered, but I also came away with a new awareness. The pizza is delicious, but it does make me want to take a nap. Such an experiment can be a tool for mindfulness. 

The point is, eating must be done consciously these days. Perhaps our great-grandmothers were less neurotic about food than we are. They ate what they had access to. Obviously, it's a highly privileged position to sit at the foot of an entire world of choice now. Centuries of tradition, mountains of information and almost limitless food availability are our blessed burden. We must take our time, learn and choose well. And, when we do, it helps to maintain a spirit of exploration rather than restriction. Reflection and eating can both be celebrations. 

The world knows that something magical happens in a French kitchen, where years of tradition converge with highly cultivated appetites, a stage set for culinary excellence. And, indeed, a dinner party in France, from its creation to its consumption, resembles a dance. Each person knows her part, whether she is the prima ballerina (the hostess) or part of the corps (the diners). The dinner has been choreographed and honed over centuries, and those ancient moves spool in their very DNA. 

First, there is the aperitif, or "apero" to whet the appetite for both the meal and conversation to come. Talk is light, the champagne bubbly. The smallest nibbles are served. Just a drop of tapenade on the slimmest cracker, a tiny dish of oily black olives, a few buttery gougères. There's no need to rush or overdo the prelude. 

Eventually the group senses when it's time to move to the heart of the matter, and the guests fold their cocktail napkins and make their way to another table, set beautifully and flickering with candlelight. Dishes are produced without the slightest evidence of effort. They seem to appear out of nowhere. Platters are passed, portions served gracefully. A salad is tossed at the table. Gentlemen pour the wine to a discreet level, and it is sipped by knowing lips. 

Attention is paid to the food, but not too much. The company and conversation are the focus, the food the music that enlivens the whole dance. 

Courses are moved through slowly and talk might grow more heated. Weather, children, and vacations have been discussed, so now politics may be introduced, if the guests are willing. By the cheese course tempers have died down, and now full concentration can be paid to the food, like discussing the music after a performance. Dessert is artfully arranged: a basket of ripe fruit and a simple tart, shiny as cleaned glass. A sliveriest of slivers is requested. The diners have dined lustily, but not outrageously. They sip tiny cups of coffee and perhaps thimblefuls of a special digestif. The long meal winds down. Everyone has played their part beautifully. 

As an American lover of food, I am in awe, an appreciative member of the audience, but one who feels deeply awkward on stage herself, as a cook and as a diner; I like to think that my enthusiasm helps compensate for my awkwardness. Although I don't have centuries of culinary tradition on which to stand, I do have good cookbooks, which is how I learned to cook. Years ago I read fat cooking bibles, like the Gourmet Cookbook and How to Cook Everything, cover to cover. Shelf after shelf, I devoured even introductions and silly chapters that explain all the utensils you need and why, which is probably how I ended up acquiring three different lemon-squeezing contraptions. 

But, no matter how much I've read and how much I've cooked, I have yet to produce a meal that is as effortless, or at least as effortless-looking as that of a French cook. The strain can be felt even in the meal-planning stage. Several cookbooks are consulted, notes taken, lists made. A meal as elaborate as Thanksgiving requires its own Excel spreadsheet. If I don't follow the recipe exactly then perhaps the magic of the dish will be missed by one little teaspoon of turmeric. Who knows? (To be honest, things have gotten better over the years as I've gained kitchen confidence, but for formal occasions, I can't take any risks.)

I've had the pleasure to dine at enough French tables to know the general choreography, but there's always something that feels a bit off when I'm the one throwing the dinner party. 

The cooking has begun. Everything that could be prepared ahead of time has been prepared. Now dishes roast and steam and bubble at the last minute for maximum flavor and appropriate heat. I have everything perfectly under control. 

And then a guest wanders into the kitchen. "How's it going in here? Let me help."

What? My concentration is broken, the rhythm's now off. I feel guilty turning him away, but don't want to charge him with any major task. Chef Control Freak is at the helm. 

"Oh, good. You could stir the sauce." That seems harmless enough. 

I try not to let my mouth display my inner snarl as he adjusts the heat on the burner. 

The aperitif is served while I am still cooking. I bolt out to sip some champagne and smile at the conversation and then sprint back to the kitchen to slam pots around. The hors d'oeuvres are good, too good and too plentiful. With my overflowing baskets and platters, I am unintentionally murdering my guests' appetites. They follow protocol, eating what they are served. The saucisson is cut into huge chunks rather than slivers. Thick slices of toasted bread, rubbed with garlic, are being dabbed in olive oil. I can't stop it. It's too late. 

Meanwhile, glasses are being topped off with abandon. Martinis, as well as champagne, have been offered, and so not only are my guests getting full, they are getting drunk. Polite conversation is already veering into dangerous territory. While slathering a radish with salted butter, one guest brings up socialism. Things are going downhill fast. 

The appetizer was anything but a tease, and I can see that the guests would be happier continuing to drink and munch just as they are, but the gargantuan main course must be served. I toss the salad at the table and leaves of dressed lettuce fly out of the bowl onto the tablecloth. 

Because my guests are sensitive, they can clearly see that toil has gone into this meal, not least because of its sheer volume. I can feed the entire block with just the mashed potatoes. And, so instead of being the elegant background music to the conversation, the feast becomes the centerpiece. The diners can't help but notice my expectant face, which wants to shout, "HOW DOES IT TASTE!?" So they deliver positive, drunken feedback, and I can relax a little, until one guest says, "Oh, how interesting to serve green beans at this time of year." Goddamn those out-of-season green beans! 

I don't offer three selections of cheese, I offer nine. The guests do their best considering their dampened appetites, but some look stricken as I announce dessert, which is done to the same extravagant, Jupiterian level as the rest of the meal. Instead of one simple tart, there's a tart, a cake, and a pie. And ice cream if you prefer. Oh, and also some warm cookies. They are overcome by choice. It's like a European, who is used to shopping at a tiny local greengrocer, is now standing immobilized in Walmart. One guest demurs and sits silently in a digestive stupor. Another, tipsily game, takes a slice of everything, and I ignore the conversation to hear what he has to say about the cheesecake. 

Clearly this is a meal cooked by someone whose favorite dish growing up was something called the big-as-yo-face burrito. At the end of the meal, which lacked finesse and balance, and was somewhat out of season, I look around, and to my surprise everyone seems happy and satisfied. It was over-the-top, zany even. So, maybe my dance de cuisine is not the graceful movement that I aspire to; perhaps it's more like a circus, loud, overwhelming and hopefully entertaining.