Fortunately for ex-pat community, there’s a store just for us with American food cravings. Hidden between two rather large stores in the Rue Cler neighborhood, I find The Real McCoy. It’s a teeny-weeny store with room for three maybe four customers at a time. Packed on shelves from floor to ceiling behind the counter is a whole array of American favorites – Oreos, salsa, Campbell’s tomato soup, Betty Crocker cake mixes and frosting, chocolate chips, Splenda, American Diet Coke (yes, there really is a difference between French and American Diet Coke), JELL-O, A1 steak sauce, and pickle relish.

The three of us, Lani, Sergio and I, made comments of pure delight as the shopkeeper smirks. I’m sure he hears these exclamations all the time from people like us. And the store must be doing a good business because it’s been around for 16 years. Prices are steep – sometimes more than double that what we’d pay in the States, but for a little taste of home, it’s worth it.

15 Euros buys me a family size box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, taco seasoning, Jiffy peanut butter (at last, real peanut butter!), marshmallows, a can of Canada Dry Ginger Ale, and a tiny jar of Hellmann’s mayonnaise. I’m a happy camper now and vow to return again. The shopkeeper smiles as we leave – he knows he has us hooked.

After spending three hours making a Frasier – a strawberry cake with mousseline cream and geniose sponge cake – I’ve worked up quite an appetite. I rush home and eagerly prepare my Kraft macaroni and cheese. I haven’t had this in ages, I think to myself.

Reading the box, I learn that I’m supposed to boil 8 cups of water with the macaroni. Once cooked, I drain the pasta, add it back to the pot and add ½ cup of milk and a half a stick of margarine. A half stick of margarine?!? Who ever heard of adding so much fat? Is this how I really made it way back when? Plus, who eats margarine anymore? Why not butter? The package contains six servings that average out to a tablespoon and a half of fat per person. (I’m sure the cuisine I’m making in class has ten times more, but I don’t bother to do the math.)

Instead if clogging my arteries, I opt for the low fat method of preparation – a mere two tablespoons of butter and a half cup of milk. As I’m making my meal, salivating with anticipation, Madame walks in. She looks a bit horrified as I pour the bright orange “cheese” packet in. The glances back at me as if to say, “What in the hell are you eating?!?” I ask her if she wants to taste it and after sniffing at the pot for a few seconds, she says yes. I dish her up a tiny bit and she devours it with relish. “Tres, tres bon,” she says. Very, very good. I’ve converted a French woman!

I dish up my portion and take it back to my room. The heavenly “cheesy” aroma is enough to make me swoon. I take a bite. And then another. And another. Hmmmm. It tastes, well…. ordinary and bland. I feel like I’m eating a bowl full of orange colored Styrofoam packing material. Could it be that I’ve lost my taste for artificial flavoring? Could it be that I’ve eaten so much raw and fresh food that I find things that don’t taste real revolting? I just spent five Euros (about $6) on a box that would have cost $2.99 in the grocery store a ¼ mile from my house, so I feel like I should eat it. But I don’t. Instead I pack it up into a couple to go containers and stick it in the fridge. Maybe Madame will eat it if I’m lucky.

Tomorrow I think I’ll make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!

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