No Moules on Monday

(This post is best experienced while listening to Duran Duran’s “New Moon on Monday” because that song is the real reason for the post. Seriously, without the song being stuck in my head and the resulting blog title we wouldn’t be here.)

Moules, for the uninitiated, is the French word for mussels. I always think of them as moules because my love affair with them began in France — it would be like falling in love with Pierre in Paris and referring to him as Peter here in the States.

I flirted with mussels before The Husband and I visited France a few years ago. When a bivalve wading in wine and garlic beckons, I tend to respond. But I never craved mussels. It was a passing attachment at best.

The Husband and I traveled to Brittany when we were in France. I thought it looked like a fairy-tale land from pictures I’d seen, plus it seems to be where crepes originate.

It turns out that Brittany is filthy with restaurants serving moules and frites. They even go so far as to have mouleries — restaurants that serve nothing but moules in sauce after delectable sauce. I never made it past the moules.

I ate nothing but moules the entire time we were in Brittany. I ate them cooked in white wine with garlic and herbs and then the same way with creme fraiche. Delicious. I devoured them drowned in wine and bleu cheese. I sampled The Husband’s moules in curry. I sopped bread and frites in sauces I can’t even remember and enjoyed every last morsel. My knees go weak just thinking of them.

I missed the moules when we returned to the States, but never mustered the courage to make them myself. I resigned myself to life without moules (great loves always involve great drama) until we return to France.

I threw myself back into the arms of Texas barbeque and Tex-Mex deliciousness and buried my sorrows. Over time the moules became a distant but fond memory.

But great romances don’t die — they slumber quietly until circumstances revive the sparks and passion flares again.

On a recent trip to Fuzzy’s Taco Shop for dinner I noticed a plaque with an article titled, “Eat These and Die Happy.” And, there, nestled almost in the middle was an entry for “mussels and frites” at a local bistro I didn’t know. I barely tasted my shredded garlic beef salad at Fuzzy’s (shame too, because it’s quite yummy) for thinking about tasty moules drenched in wine and herbs with a side of frites.

At the first opportunity (Monday) I looked up the bistro, drooled on my keyboard reading about their versions of moules, got directions, and waited for my chance to convince The Husband. And my chance came immediately (success favors the prepared, or something like that) when The Husband needed to eat an early dinner and head back to the office. I unfolded my plan with rationale (the food I was thawing couldn’t be ready in his time frame) and got the agreement. We’d go out for moules that very night.

So why am I writing a post titled, “No Moules for Monday”? Because the stupid bistro is closed on Mondays.

2 Responses to “No Moules on Monday”

  1. Sarah says:

    How much do I love that your turned a passion for moules into an allusion to Duran Duran. I can’t even say . . .

  2. Dan says:

    I love moules and frites! I fell head over heels on my first trip to Paris. There is a chain of mouleries in the City of Lights that you may have noticed — Léon de Bruxelles. I ate there every chance I got.

    Moules and frites are quite popular here in Baghdad by the Bay and Alice loves them, too, and is always happy to make them for dinner.

    And thanks to you, I’ll be picking up some mussels on my way home tonight. Yum.

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