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By Root 1007 0

if people were this curious about our holiday, turkeys would be everywhere in anticipation of a stray American in their neighborhood—ethnocentric thinking indeed. As instructed, I went to our butcher—a kind, large, jolly man who we came to know well during our time living on avenue Secrétan. I asked him for a ten- or twelve-kilo dinde and he laughed in my face. Surely I was joking. That would be nearly impossible to find in time for my dinner next week. It’s simply not the time for turkeys, he informed me. Could he get me a goose instead? Then he stopped and remembered vaguely about that American tradition of killing turkeys in the middle of November, and could I explain why we do this? At every turn, I found myself recounting a quick version of American history and how Thanksgiving has transformed into a time for food and family more than anything else. He was happy to go above and beyond and get my dinde. It would be here by Tuesday.

Two days before Thanksgiving, our friends were over for apéritifs and we looked around our 650-square-foot apartment trying to figure out exactly how we were going to fit twenty-eight people for dinner—and at one table, no less. The one table we had could seat six at most. They called themselves into action immediately, determined to make the dinner a success. Louis would bring two extra tables from his parents’ house and folding chairs. We would move the armoire and couch out of the living room and line the table up diagonally through the center of the room to fit everyone together. Lionel would bring at least twenty plates; Virginie would ask Alona and Thérèse to bring extra silverware. We would go out tomorrow morning together to buy cheap wine glasses from the catchall five-and-dime shop down the street. We were all quite thankful that the liquor store was only across the street!

The hard part was getting all the food. The French apartment lifestyle has yet to incorporate a Sub-Zero. Our apartment didn’t come with an oven, either. We only had a large tabletop rotisserie oven in which to make turkey, popovers, and stuffing in. The timing had to be perfect. We had a tiny two-shelf fridge under our counter. Everything that needed to be refrigerated would have to be bought Thursday morning. Thankfully it was a chilly November, because the turkey would have to live on the terrace in the small shed for a while to keep cold. Wednesday was spent prepping vegetables, as well as making pain surprise for the apéritifs and, of course, the pies—two pumpkin and two of grandma’s apple pies.

You might be asking yourself what a pain surprise is. Quite simply, hollow out the bread, make a mix of sandwich flavors, and put them back in! I made salted cucumber with chive crème fraîche, jambon de Serrano with olive tapenade, brandade de morue (a spreadable codfish concoction that is quite delicious), and mousse of duck foie gras with sea salt and fig jam. It’s a surprise because you don’t know what sandwich you will get—a terrible plan for an American party of picky eaters, but the French don’t seem to have that in their blood.

PAIN SURPRISE

Cut off the top of a large round bread loaf, or boule. For this dish, pain de mie is the best bread option.

Cut a circle inside the crust sides and very strategically cut out the bottom to lift out the bread.

Slice those into sandwich-size pieces and make various flavors of small tea sandwiches.

As I prepped away, various people climbed up and down seven flights of stairs with supplies or stuffed our bedroom with the living room furniture to make extra room. They were literally working for their meal. It was grand. Everyone was having a fantastic time and making Thanksgiving possible. It had become a quest.

The morning of Thanksgiving, our fridge decided not to cooperate and the door fell off. I called Sébastien at the restaurant where he worked not knowing what to do, and he assured me that everything would be fine. He got the evening off and would fix it when he returned home. In the meantime, he told me, “Improvise.” Hadn’t I been doing that