Tchau Bela
New member
Nabbed at Customs
By PHILIP CRAWFORD
International Herald Tribune
PARIS -- Just when you think that long-strained French-American
relations might be improving, something happens to show that we've got a
long way to go. And who would have thought that the humble French
foodstuff known as saucisson was all that was needed to drive the point
home?
For the uninitiated, saucisson is one of the stars of the fabled French
ap?ritif. That's the first act of any self-respecting Parisian dinner
party at which people sit around chatting, swilling Champagne, and
eyeing each others' spouses. If you're lucky, you might be served bits
of foie gras on toast or warm little squares of croque monsieur. And
there is often some sliced saucisson, a tubular piece of pork embedded
with globs of fat that hits the spot with ice-cold bubbly.
Small wonder, then, that when planning a recent trip to the states to
visit my mother, I thought I might bring her a saucission as a gift. I
knew that she and my stepfather would love the stuff. As for me, like
one of Pavlov's dogs, every time I sense the aroma of a saucisson, I
seem to hear festive Champagne corks popping. I envisioned a good
two-hour ap?ritif full of laughs and familial good cheer upon arriving.
But the night before the trip, a feeling of dread arrived. It came on
when I recalled that good ol' US of A customs declaration form -- the
one in which they ask if you're bringing any meats or other contraband
(such as live poultry or cattle) into the country. Worse, I remembered
that I was flying into Houston -- where the airport is named after
someone called Bush -- the closest hub to the burg where my mother
lives. That would be Beaumont, Texas, perhaps best known for being the
home town of Debra Jo Fondren, Hugh Hefner's 1978 Playmate of the Year,
she of the Rapunzel-esque tresses that mesmerized a generation of young
men. There may once have been some oil wells there too.
As I packed the saucisson, I somehow knew that any customs officer
working in an airport named Bush wouldn't take too kindly to being lied
to about the contents of my luggage. I could imagine a
"you-in-a-heap-a-trouble-boy" scene at passport control, being cuffed
and led to a prison cell where my only comfort would be a chicken-fried
steak once a year on my birthday.
Just before landing, I filled out the customs form. Any meats? No sir, I
lied. Once we landed and I retrieved my luggage, I had to face the
music.
"So," said the customs officer amiably. "Whud'ja buy overseas that
you're bringin' in?"
"Just two bottles of Champagne that I bought in duty-free," I said.
"That's all?"
"Yes."
A too-long pause.
"You sure?" A no-nonsense look.
"Oh, uh, almost forgot. I think I brought a sausage for my mother. It's
her favorite."
"Is it pork?"
"No, beef." Lying again.
The officer wrote a huge scarlet "A" on my declaration form. "You'll
have to see the "Ag" guys," he said.
In an adjacent room, an agricultural customs officer made me open my
suitcase. I dug in and unearthed the treasure, slowly unfolding the wax
paper. What a gorgeous saucisson it was. There went the Champagne corks.
"Where'd you buy this?" the officer asked.
"France," I said.
"Well, meat from that country is not seen as very safe. You can't bring
it in."
That country?
I counterpunched quickly: "Americans buy all sorts of food products from
France," I said. "Cheese, wine, everything. No one is going to eat this
but me and my family. How can it hurt anyone?" The officer stood stone
faced. Time to roll out the heavy artillery. "My mother is 81 years old.
Are you actually going to deprive her of something that would truly
brighten her day?"
Looking me straight in the eye, the officer said "Yep." Then, for good
measure: "I don't make the laws."
He took that wonderful work of l'art de la charcuterie and threw it into
a garbage can just behind him. A large sign on the wall warned that
aggression against customs officers was a Texas-sized heap of trouble. I
took a deep breath and walked away.
I'm not sure what Alexis de Tocqueville would have thought about this
little episode. Or whether the customs guy actually took the saucisson
home that night, rinsed it off, and ate it with some freedom fries. But
there's no doubt that France and America are still an ocean apart on the
sensibilities of daily life.
And the next time I bring a saucisson into Texas -- and I will, I'm
determined -- I'll just keep quiet about what's in my suitcase and take
my chances. By the way, I like my chicken-fried steak well done.
Philip Crawford, a former journalist, works for a management consulting
firm in Paris.
By PHILIP CRAWFORD
International Herald Tribune
PARIS -- Just when you think that long-strained French-American
relations might be improving, something happens to show that we've got a
long way to go. And who would have thought that the humble French
foodstuff known as saucisson was all that was needed to drive the point
home?
For the uninitiated, saucisson is one of the stars of the fabled French
ap?ritif. That's the first act of any self-respecting Parisian dinner
party at which people sit around chatting, swilling Champagne, and
eyeing each others' spouses. If you're lucky, you might be served bits
of foie gras on toast or warm little squares of croque monsieur. And
there is often some sliced saucisson, a tubular piece of pork embedded
with globs of fat that hits the spot with ice-cold bubbly.
Small wonder, then, that when planning a recent trip to the states to
visit my mother, I thought I might bring her a saucission as a gift. I
knew that she and my stepfather would love the stuff. As for me, like
one of Pavlov's dogs, every time I sense the aroma of a saucisson, I
seem to hear festive Champagne corks popping. I envisioned a good
two-hour ap?ritif full of laughs and familial good cheer upon arriving.
But the night before the trip, a feeling of dread arrived. It came on
when I recalled that good ol' US of A customs declaration form -- the
one in which they ask if you're bringing any meats or other contraband
(such as live poultry or cattle) into the country. Worse, I remembered
that I was flying into Houston -- where the airport is named after
someone called Bush -- the closest hub to the burg where my mother
lives. That would be Beaumont, Texas, perhaps best known for being the
home town of Debra Jo Fondren, Hugh Hefner's 1978 Playmate of the Year,
she of the Rapunzel-esque tresses that mesmerized a generation of young
men. There may once have been some oil wells there too.
As I packed the saucisson, I somehow knew that any customs officer
working in an airport named Bush wouldn't take too kindly to being lied
to about the contents of my luggage. I could imagine a
"you-in-a-heap-a-trouble-boy" scene at passport control, being cuffed
and led to a prison cell where my only comfort would be a chicken-fried
steak once a year on my birthday.
Just before landing, I filled out the customs form. Any meats? No sir, I
lied. Once we landed and I retrieved my luggage, I had to face the
music.
"So," said the customs officer amiably. "Whud'ja buy overseas that
you're bringin' in?"
"Just two bottles of Champagne that I bought in duty-free," I said.
"That's all?"
"Yes."
A too-long pause.
"You sure?" A no-nonsense look.
"Oh, uh, almost forgot. I think I brought a sausage for my mother. It's
her favorite."
"Is it pork?"
"No, beef." Lying again.
The officer wrote a huge scarlet "A" on my declaration form. "You'll
have to see the "Ag" guys," he said.
In an adjacent room, an agricultural customs officer made me open my
suitcase. I dug in and unearthed the treasure, slowly unfolding the wax
paper. What a gorgeous saucisson it was. There went the Champagne corks.
"Where'd you buy this?" the officer asked.
"France," I said.
"Well, meat from that country is not seen as very safe. You can't bring
it in."
That country?
I counterpunched quickly: "Americans buy all sorts of food products from
France," I said. "Cheese, wine, everything. No one is going to eat this
but me and my family. How can it hurt anyone?" The officer stood stone
faced. Time to roll out the heavy artillery. "My mother is 81 years old.
Are you actually going to deprive her of something that would truly
brighten her day?"
Looking me straight in the eye, the officer said "Yep." Then, for good
measure: "I don't make the laws."
He took that wonderful work of l'art de la charcuterie and threw it into
a garbage can just behind him. A large sign on the wall warned that
aggression against customs officers was a Texas-sized heap of trouble. I
took a deep breath and walked away.
I'm not sure what Alexis de Tocqueville would have thought about this
little episode. Or whether the customs guy actually took the saucisson
home that night, rinsed it off, and ate it with some freedom fries. But
there's no doubt that France and America are still an ocean apart on the
sensibilities of daily life.
And the next time I bring a saucisson into Texas -- and I will, I'm
determined -- I'll just keep quiet about what's in my suitcase and take
my chances. By the way, I like my chicken-fried steak well done.
Philip Crawford, a former journalist, works for a management consulting
firm in Paris.