Weird French Thanksgiving, year 2

There is Thanksgiving in France! Every year, around 250 people gather for Thanksgiving in the center of Bordeaux, a melange of expats, Ameriphiles, and about 80 students from a joint exchange program with the University of California system. It's a horrifying yet wonderful experience, and everyone has a ridiculous yet fabulous time basking in how French the meal is.

To begin, Weird French Thanksgiving does not consist of the merry free-for-all in which each diner is at liberty to pile on as much food without reaching the plate's breaking point. It's served in courses. Allison, an English teacher from Washington, piped up in a worried voice, "Courses? At Thanksgiving?" This is France, mademoiselle. For the entree, a variety of salads to choose from. Cucumber and mayonnaise salad, carrot and mayonnaise salad, tuna and mayonnaise salad, and mystery meat and mayonnaise salad.

The turkey is next, and the army of eaters, having waded successfully through a vat of mayonnaise, claps appreciatively when the chefs present the turkeys - sans platter - and throw them onto the buffet table, dislodging at least one drumstick in the process. There are several things about the French which still elude me, such as how one can carry a piping-hot turkey from the oven without a platter, or what mystifying skill of hand they learn in order to cut uniform blocks of turkey approximately 7 cm x 7 cm x 7 cm, instead of in slices.

No Block o'Turkee is complete without sides, of course, and it came served with a scoopful of steak fries and boiled chestnuts, and topped with a slender gravy in which cranberries swam with tangy abandon. I am highly suspicious those happy little red swimmers were actually pomegranate seeds disguised as gravy cranberries. But, no matter how the dinner was served or looked, everything tasted so French. The turkey is actually quite good. It's juicy and savory and tastes just fine. But it's French turkey to the core.

A cheese course follows, then pumpkin tartlets. Tartlets might have the flavor of pumpkin, but the buttery crust sits at least twice as thick as the filling. And one asks, where are the spices? Have the French never heard of cinnamon or nutmeg? Why is there brie on my plate?

To those who consider Thanksgiving a sacred meal to be guarded with extreme jealousy, and made "just so," complete with gravy made with flour, canned cranberry sauce that retains the shape of the can when you extract it, that weird orange sweet stuff that nobody can identify, some vegetable matter to add color the table, rolls, Grandma's Secret Stuffing recipe, Martinelli's sparkling cider, and a choice of pumpkin or apple pie which ultimately ends in a slice of both because one can't decide, this is not the dinner for you. But I've gone twice now, because I love the melange of people, languages, and traditions, and I hold a sadistic delight in knowing there are some things that the gastronomical elitism of the French just shouldn't touch.