Buffalo Grill Won't You Come Out Tonight

You would think being in the land of Foodies (people who know how to appreciate food), finding a place to eat dinner would be a piece of cake (or in this case perhaps quiche). However, we've learned that unless you're willing to subject your family to the consequences of childhood sleep deprivation, dinner out isn't really an option. Lunch to be sure, but not dinner.

Most restaurants are open for about two hours from noon through 2pm (which here is 14h - something I'm still not used to and am forced to use my fingers to figure out). Then establishments close and don't reopen for dinner until 19h30 (that's 7:30 in the P.M.). When we first arrived here, eating out would have meant we would be sitting down to dinner right about at the kids' bedtime. Close to a year later and I hate to say we have begun to cross over to the dark side. Our kids rarely are asleep before 21h. (That's NINE AT NIGHT!!! I feel like such a bad parent!)

But on our last night of vacation, after a week of touring, hiking, going to bed late, getting up early, we were all so exhausted we desperately wanted to fall back into our comfortable, familiar routine of 5:30 dinner, relaxing down time and 7:30 to bed. Around 4pm we left the lake to begin our search for something that would be open and serving meals that early. I had my doubts then, and should have probably insisted on stopping at a market to buy some supplies for a bed-top picnic dinner back in our room. But that sounded like too much work at the time. Ohhhh, had I only known....

The first village we arrived at seemed very promising. There were at least half a dozen restaurants lining the center square. We parked the car and began our procession past the menus. Turned out half were closed for the season with "see you in July" signs in the windows. Another was open, but not serving dinner until 7:30. One had a menu with regional fare including tripe and some word I didn't know. The kid's menu options were literally a tripe casserole or local sausages (which are NOT like whatever you are picturing in your mind right now, I promise you). Even though we have been pretty impressed with our kids' willingness to try new things, we weren't up for the job of convincing them that cow's stomach was edible. I can't even convince myself of that one. That left one more possibility. From afar, there was hope. "Bar - Pizzeria - Cafe" was stenciled on the awning. As we drew nearer however, it became apparent that "Bar" was by far the dominant operative. A couple shady characters, sans dents, blearily peered at us over their drinks. I stopped short. "I don't think so." Reluctantly, the kids turned and followed us back to the car.

The next two towns we drove through were shut up tight. Not a restaurant or cafe to be found. With school vacation still being a solid month away, apparently our timing was off. By 6pm we were desperate, so we decided to skip trying to find something nearby and instead drive the 30 minutes into the town on the other side of our B&B - where our hostess had specifically recommended we go to find dinner. We walked down the two or three main streets only to find one restaurant (which was of course closed until 7:30) and a "Kebab" stand - which I refused on principle. I had dismissed the notion of self-serve or picnic dinner two hours ago. I wasn't about to change my mind now. Certainly not for greasy meat-on-a-stick.

Our hostess had also mentioned another place down the street from her. We slumped back into the car hoping beyond all hope that "La Fumade" would provide the nourishment we all desperately needed at this point. The kids and I held our appetites at bay with slices of "American Bread" (sandwich bread) and peanut butter (from England). Hope soared as we pulled into the restaurant's lot and saw the doors wide open and a woman busy at work inside. We scrambled out of the car and over to the entrance like desert wanderers to an oasis. "Nous allons ouvrir a dix-neuf trente." David glanced at his watch. Twenty-five minutes. Hmmmm. We took a quick look at the menu.

Menu d'enfant

Nuggets de poulet avec frites

Steak hache avec frites

SCORE! We could wait the half-hour knowing chicken nuggets and hamburgers were foods the kids would gladly eat. As we contentedly ambled back to the car I began to notice a profound number of mosquitoes congregating in our midst. Back home, this wouldn't be all that surprising, but you must understand this was practically the first time I'd seen ONE mosquito in the past ten months. They simply didn't seem to exist here. When we had first arrived last August, I was shocked to see screenless windows wide open for all the insect world's delight. But after a while of never seeing a black fly or mosquito, I figured, "well, no wonder, without those pests, I think I'd prefer no screens as well!"

But here, the mosquitoes were EVERYWHERE. After taking refuge in the car for a bit, we decided to risk a short stroll over to some very small but pretty cascades on the other side of the restaurant's large lawn. By the time we returned, two other cars had joined ours in the lot and one of the couples had entered the restaurant. Ah! Finally. We could begin to believe dinner was really going to happen for us. It was 7:25p.m..

We entered the restaurant, swatting at the mosquitoes all along the way. With the doors still wide open, we opted for a table further in toward the center of the room, despite the hostess's offer of the table right by the door. Better not to *be* dinner while we eat dinner. Ha! Like geography mattered. We sat waiting for menus, taking in the bright yellow walls and American-diner-like decor and the swarms of mosquitoes. And I do mean SWARMS. David and I began batting our arms, slapping our hands against walls, the table, our legs; we were on a mad killing spree in attempt to usher in some semblance of peace for our dinner. "With the door wide open, we are fighting a losing battle." I mumbled. Our fearless leader got up and closed the door, the other guests eying him suspiciously as they swatted the air around themselves as well.

Two seconds later, when it appeared we might actually make some headway; the air clearing and the death count mounting, the hostess walked through the door with drinks for another table and propped the door back open in one swift motion. The black "fog" began to roll back in. I felt like crying. Would our drinks be safe? Could we get the food from the plate to our mouths and have it remain mosquito-free?  Honestly, if it was this bad in the dining room, how much worse would it be in the kitchen? In my mind all I could picture was an industrial sized kitchen, hot and humid with an open door leading to "out back" where dumpsters and an ashtray sat. The air in my imaginary kitchen was thick with mosquitoes. The "chef" was stubbly-faced with a smoldering cigarette drooping out of a mouth spewing well-justified french profanity at these god-awful bugs. I couldn't shake the mental picture I had created and I despairingly reached my limit.

"David?" My eyes were pleading, so afraid of his reaction to what I was about to say. "I don't think I can do this. I don't think I can stay and eat in this environment. It's just too much."

"I'm with you. Let's go." To my shock and relief, he practically jumped from his chair. But not before the hostess arrived with our menus. She looked confused as she took in our eminent departure.

"Desolee," I began, horrified to have to explain why, after waiting a half an hour to eat here, we were actually leaving. "Mais, nous ne pouvons pas rester ici. Les insects - c'est trop...non. Nous avons besoins partir. Desolee." (Sorry, but, we can't stay here. The bugs - it's too.... no. We must leave. Sorry.)

We all but sprinted to the car, and collapsed with an exasperated, "Now what?!"

"Oh what I wouldn't give for an Applebees right about now," David lamented.
"Mmmm.. or a TGI Fridays," I sighed.
"Bugaboos!" chimed in voices from the back. The kids were behaving unbelievably well considering all we had been through in the last three hours of our dinner-search. The whimpered quietly behind us while David and I ran through our depleting options. A rather large city was just on the other side of the mountain range. They'd be sure to have *something.* Even, dare I say, a McDonald's. That's right people. I had become that desperate. We decided to go for it.

At 7:55pm we found ourselves hot on the trail of a Buffalo Grill, which is the French equivalent to Applebees. Hallelujah, the Lord had heard our prayers! We'd found food. And not just food. But good food. Familiar food. Food with descriptive words like, "barbeque," "American," and "grilled" in the titles.

When we pulled out of the Buffalo Grill parking lot at 22h (that would be a mere two hours before midnight) - we sure were exhausted but also totally stuffed with extremely content food-drunk smiles across our tired faces.

Ahhhh the sweet taste of success.

*For the record, this phot is from dinner with my parents at a different Buffalo Grill. I was too tired to think to take a photo of Bo with his Barbe a Papa and Vivi with her ice cream. But this still captures the sentiment, and like Applebees, all Buffalo Grills are exactly the same, so whatever.