Les Dutrucs - part one

On Easter Lionel invited me for dinner at his parent’s home. I was happy to accept as Douglas was in Germany for work and it had been a long time since I’d had a holiday meal that didn’t involve a Chinese restaurant.

Easter morning I went with Vincent to church. We chose one that used the Latin mass. Why should I be the only one to not understand anything? After church we walked back to Cours Berriat where Lionel and his father were waiting with the car.

The Dutrucs live in Seyssins, a village next to Grenoble, sandwiched between the Drac River and the Vercors range. The new tram line that opened this summer goes there. It’s a community of bedrooms and garages on streets lined with blooming bushes.

At dinner were Lionel’s parents, his brother and sister-in-law, Lionel and Vincent, and me. I brought a banana bread.

Mr. Dutruc handed me a martini shortly after arriving. A martini in France isn’t the dry combination of gin or vodka, an olive or onion, and vermouth in an easily spilled glass that can be seen on M*A*S*H, Sex and the City, or in front of Viv Ladd. The French martini is either red or white and poured from a bottle with a label reminiscent of the London Underground logo. Mr. Dutruc gave me a red martini, which tastes something like Pepsi and something like Heineman’s ice wine. It’s easy to drink.

I’ve found that in some settings alcohol makes my French flow more easily. I speak it as poorly as when sober, but less self-conscious. If the people I’m speaking with also have a drink in hand they seem more at ease with my struggling too. Alcohol makes it easier to be laughed at.

Being the curious foreigner in the house my friend was raised in I decided to ask some questions. Why should I be the only one feeling awkward? “Did you ever break any windows?” I asked Lionel. I hit the nail on the head with my first try.

Lionel told us about a time in high school when his parents were out of town and he and his brother were arguing on the way home from school. (I was on my second martini, so I might have some of the details wrong) When Lionel reached the house, he slammed the door so hard that one of the panes of glass broke. Or maybe someone was locked outside and a fist was involved. Maybe a rock. I can’t remember, but I do recall that Madame Dutruc said, “that’s how the window broke? You told us it was stormy weather.”

Awkward foreigner no longer in the hot seat, I held out my glass and said “yes, I’ll have another.”

Dinner was great. There was probably some lamb with rice and carrots and a salad and a green vegetable. Maybe broccoli. Some excellent bread. Dessert was yogurt with honey and fruit spreads. And the banana bread.

“What are the little black things?” the sister-in-law asked.

“Little bits of cooked banana,” I said. I wanted to say ‘the meal worm exoskeletons’ but it’s hard to be funny in a foreign language. No matter how many martinis.