Discussions before the curtain goes up

Il n'est pas approprié de servir l'histoire "Des discussions avant que le rideau se leve" en française, parce que on ne veut pas ruiner la réputation gastronomique des Français à leurs propres yeux.

In a theater, lots of things happen before the actual show is due to begin. And such is the "real" life too. As it happens, most of us have only two eyes, and momentarily we can only see the action that takes place around us. But, before the real-life-show actors are brought before us, there have been things happening just around the corner, and actually all that fuss has taken place only to prepare another live act to be run before our very own eyes.

If you follow the media, or still happen to read newspapers, you definitely know that corporate food industry is a magnificent playground, where profits go easily before the benefits of the consumers. What is happening behind the curtains of the food procession stage will most likely never be completely unveiled. However, if you mobilize your imagination and use it in a logical manner for going backwards from the outcome in direction of the beginning, it might be possible to see something very different from what you expect. As the curtain is still between us and the actors, we can only hear their voices..., but reading between the lines is an excellent tool.

And here we go...

Two pigs are whisking flies with their tails and talking. There are others too, and they all have some good time in the backyard of an old meat processing plant. They are standing knee-deep in the water. But it is not just any sort of water as it is very aromatic and very different from the usual pigsty stuff. The bigger of the two has an apple, but the other doesn't like his demeanor. As a matter of fact, the big one is not eating, but only holds it between the teeth in an open mouth. "You make me fret", says the first pig, "I know your sarcasm has no boundaries, but the Christmas is still another six months down the road. Why couldn't we just enjoy ourselves and this nice foot bath. It's not our time yet, although I've been feeling a bit weird lately. I just wander if it has anything to do with these bath salts they been pushing to us?" Somewhere in the distance, you can hear the rattling sound of an approaching truck with a tasty text "Charcuterie" on its side.

Two mussels or, as they are so very small, should I say cockles, live in a cavernous place that they have been calling their home for a very long time. They have rooms of their own, but separated by a thick "block head": "Can you hear me...? I've been trying to reach you for decades, but this stupid host just always turns you in the wrong direction. When we were younger, I could hear you at least somehow. It must be the crickets's fault, also they have disappeared. Do you know what? I'm just wondering why it's been so quiet quite a while. This place has been pretty dead for weeks, and these new fluids get everywhere. Before, there always was some noise and talk and chatter from around, but then it abruptly ended with a thump. I don't think the cauliflower at the door is well either. Wow..wow.. wow, what's happening now.. I'm out and in a... jar; there's light everywhere. Perhaps, after all there is an afterlife".

A very small slim girl in a tiny bed talking to another alike: "How do you feel about changing your name? Don't feel bad, I'm also going to Scandinavia, and I think it's just great. They like our dark skin up there. The men, especially the older men do. I've heard some of them make orders on us on the Internet.  So many girls find it better to move abroad, as they hope for a better life even if it were a canned sort one. Up there, they just love us; you don't have to be an anchovy by birth. And now we can forget that the real ones don't talk to us. "You are such a sprat", and other obscenities they so often throw at us. However, although we were sprats in our native sea, now as we've passed the customs, we have officially been wedded to the family of the Anchovies".

One of the turkeys is different. He's calling himself a clairvoyant, but has a speech disorder, and the others do not like him. His muttering: "glug, glug, glug" is rhythmic and has a appealing cadence, but the staccato is almost overwhelming, and there is no sense as the significance is completely incongruous. The others find it just aggravating as otherwise the days are bright and peaceful. There is lots of food, and the farm in the Champagne region is cozy. The speech impeded one tries harder, and with some effort he manages to spit out a miserable but generally understandable "cluck". Thanksgiving is only a few weeks ahead. In the afternoon, all the turkeys are gathered in the anteroom of a small but clean looking building. The turkeys are picked up one by one and taken into the back room by an old man with an axe in his belt. And then, this repetitive sound begins; it is not so rhythmic, but the staccato is clear although the pace is slow. Cluck.......... cluck... Only "I got it right" has time to flash through in the last milliseconds of awareness of the speech impeded one, before it is his CLUCK.

It was an early morning in the Marseilles harbour, and two hungry vacationing foreign legion privates had a serious talk. "You know, French hot mustard and sausages are an explosive combination sometimes with far-reaching consequences", told a private to another. "Our chaplain told me this whole history about how his line of work was started. You see, still a couple of years ago, not far from here, there was a snack-stall, and the poor owner got those sausages so hot the whole stall exploded. One of the sausages ended up on a cloud, and an angel just found it dangling on the edge about to fall back on earth. He didn't know what it was and took it to Saint Peter for identification. Well, Saint Peter didn't know either, but deduced perhaps Virgin Mary would know as she had more expertise on secular issues. First, Virgin Mary pretended just as ignorant as St.Peter had been. Anyway, as the angel was insistent, her demeanour finally softened: "I wouldn't swear and I could be wrong, but if it didn't have those ropes attached to the other end, I would call it the Holy Ghost." There was a moment of silence, but finally, shrugging their shoulders the privates decided to mind just their own risky business. No clouds in Marseilles harbour today.

And finally, for crowning a great meal...

Sheila, Maria and Carmen, who worked in a sausage factory, had a break. Maria was a girl with meagre composition and envied the better "equipped" two. For sounding nonchalant, she had just cited something she had recently read about the official escalation of language when discussing breast sizes: "The smallest are "cute boobs, then come "nice tits" followed by "great jugs", and finally we arrive at "major hooters" (Ed McBain, Hark!). The other two paid no heed to her as, according to the protocol, the girls had to finalize the shape of the sausages between their breasts, and that is why their talk often related to these essential tools. But what followed then was to be written in the histories of the Opera Music and Tobacco Industry. "Hey Maria", uttered Sheila, "Could you roll one of those joints for me and Carmen too. You do it so niftily between the boobs, and see all that grease, it holds all the stuff together. I just wonder if we could use them and these (pushing up her own) for something bigger too... baseball bats, cigars?" After a moment of consideration she went on: "But Carmen, you know the guy who has a cigar factory, don't you...? At least he comes to your place every Saturday afternoon, doesn't he. Just show him how to do it... no, no, I mean rolling a major cigar between your hooters. I can already see you as a technical adviser in his shop, and your voice is not do bad either."

Nous ici dans les pays nordiques ont appris à aimer nos voisins. C'est pourquoi je ne veux pas préciser l'historique de la poutine, le plat national du Québec français.