I Fell in Love with a Merguez Sausage

It was love at first sight. Or rather bite. Or rather squirt. Seated on a bench at a trestle table running the length of a seemingly endless garage beneath a bungalow on a cul-de-sac in La Rochelle, France. Both sides lined with garrulous Gallic families — friends, neighbors, relations, colleagues, acquaintances of the family we were staying with. A generous glimpse into their wider world.

It is not pork, like the sausages of my homeland (or rather rusk, reconstituted potato starch, water…), but lamb. And it is spiced. I am in the southerly climes of France, savoring the more southerly flavors of North Africa, and I am having an epiphany. A window has been flung wide open, in my mouth, in my mind, in my soul. And in billows the sultry, perfumed air of a continental summer. The future is another country. They’ll do things differently there.

But I can’t stop to linger on all that this humbly magnificent sausage may signify — more food is…

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